


Far From Okay

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beck made them do it, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, For Peter/Tony anyway, Heavy Angst, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, No really I promise the ending is happy, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker non-con, Rough Sex, Tony Stark is a god damn mess, non-con elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-12-27 03:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Okay, that explains how he got here. It doesn’t explain why. Or where here is, though by the look of things he’s in a hotel room. A hotel room with Mr. Stark, and Mr. Beck, and a gun, and…a camera perched on a tripod beside Mr. Beck, red light blinking.Or: in a world where Tony Stark survivesEndgame, Beck takes a different path for revenge. But it’s the aftermath that’s the worst part.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pleurer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleurer/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Далеко не в порядке](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864574) by [Liraira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liraira/pseuds/Liraira)

> So, this got...out of control. It combines several of your requests, in a way I sincerely hope you find enjoyable rather than crazy. I had so much fun with it, because whumping our boys is such a pleasure, and I can only hope you have fun reading it, too.
> 
> Set in a world that is mostly IW/Endgame compliant, but assume Tony and Pepper broke up sometime before having Morgan, and Tony survives Endgame. 
> 
> This takes place at roughly the same time FFH does, near the end of Peter’s repeated junior year. However, it’s my fic, so I declare Peter is 17, because there is zero way the math adds up to make him 16.
> 
> See the endnotes for further, mildly spoilery content warnings. This is darker than a lot of my fics go, so please be forewarned!

Peter comes to, weak, blurry, and lying on a very comfortable mattress.

Which is confusing, since he doesn’t remember falling asleep. He tries to get up, but his muscles feel like they’re melting. He only makes it halfway to sitting, world spinning, before he slumps sideways, into—

Into the hard plane of someone else’s body.

“Wha—?” he hears himself slur as firm hands catch him, settling him back against a pile of fluffy pillows. He blinks up at the person holding him, image resolving into place. It’s Mr. Stark.

What the _fuck_.

“Hey, kid.” Mr. Stark’s smile is encouraging, but his voice is tight, and his eyes flick quickly to a corner of the room. Peter follows the glance, then promptly decides he may actually be tripping balls, because there, off to the side, half a room away, reclining casually in a large leather desk chair, is Mr. Beck. His new chemistry teacher. Holding a gun. Holding a gun _pointed at them_.

“Mr. Parker, so good of you to join us.” Mr. Beck grins, but it’s not the jovial smile that led every girl—and quite a few of the boys, Peter maybe a little bit included—to spend the first week of the new semester giggling behind their hands every time he looked the other direction in class. No, this smile is wide and full of teeth, a little manic. “I was afraid that even after that blood test we’d calibrated the drugs wrong. Your biology is fascinating, by the way. Really made setting this whole thing up more difficult.”

Blood test. Like…from when they’d all drawn blood for that lab a few weeks ago? _What_?

And, okay, okay, he needs to concentrate. Blood test, biology—Mr. Beck knows Peter is Spider-Man. That’s…bad. Though it’s hard to tell exactly _how_ bad, because _what the fuck is going on_?

Peter looks around the room, trying to figure out what “this whole thing” that’s been set up _is_. Okay, okay, what does he know? Mr. Beck asked him to stay after class. Final period. He’d needed to talk to him, had flattered him, something about how he’s the smartest student in the school. He’d offered him—_fuck_, he’d opened a bag of M&Ms and offered him a few. They must’ve been drugged.

Okay, that explains how he got here. It doesn’t explain why. Or where here is, though by the look of things he’s in a hotel room. A hotel room with Mr. Stark, and Mr. Beck, and a gun, and…a camera perched on a tripod beside Mr. Beck, red light blinking.

Which. Um. _What_?

He’s so lost in his thoughts—and maybe the haze of the drug—he misses when Mr. Stark starts talking. He tunes back in to catch him saying something about letting him go. “Your problem is with me; the kid doesn’t need to be involved.” 

Add this to the list of useless clues: whatever Mr. Beck’s problem is, he already filled Mr. Stark in before Peter woke up.

“Yes, but we went to all this trouble getting him here, it would be a shame to waste that.” Mr. Beck tilts his head toward Peter with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, kid, it’s not personal. I actually kind of like you. _But_”—his eyes flick back to Mr. Stark—“the plan is the plan.”

“And what exactly _is_ the plan?” Mr. Stark is aiming at nonchalance, but it’s obviously forced. He places a protective hand on Peter’s thigh, eyes trained on Mr. Beck. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve been through a few kidnappings in my day, and this whole five-star hotel situation doesn’t exactly leave me trembling in my boots.”

There goes that smile again, the one with teeth. “Oh, but the great Tony Stark wouldn’t fuck his favorite underage boy toy anywhere but the best.”

Peter’s stomach swoops, breath catching. “_No_,” he gasps, at the same moment Mr. Stark snatches his hand back, growling, “No fucking way.”

This can’t be happening. Peter digs his thumbnail into the soft pad of his index finger, willing himself to wake up, but all it gets him is a sharp bite of pain. So this isn’t a new, darker take on the dreams he normally has. This is real. Fuck. He glances up at Mr. Stark, whose eyes are darting between him and Mr. Beck.

“It’s okay, Pete,” he says softly. “I’m not going to—”

“Actually, I think you are,” Mr. Beck says, aiming the gun in Peter’s direction. “Unless you really believe you can take me down from over there before I pull this trigger.”

Mr. Stark’s right hand inches toward the watch he always wears, but Mr. Beck catches the movement. He makes a clicking sound with his tongue.

“Really, Tony? You think my team hasn’t blocked your tech? This is the problem: you always think you’re the smartest guy in the room.”

Mr. Stark goes for the watch anyway, but whatever it’s supposed to do doesn’t work. His eyes widen, just slightly, but it’s enough to convey something Peter hasn’t seen on his face since Titan: panic.

Mr. Beck smirks. He leans over, flicking the camera on. “Okay. Let’s show America what kind of man you really are.”

“Just like that?” Mr. Stark sounds like he’s been sentenced to the Sarlacc.

Peter squirms. Of course. _Of course _this is how this would happen. Not during a late night in the lab, Mr. Stark kissing him out of nowhere. Assuring him those longing glances in the year since the Blip aren’t just his imagination, he hasn’t been making too much of the casual touches or the way Mr. Stark lights up every time he drops by.

That’s a nice fantasy, but none of it is true. None of it is real; if Peter didn’t already know that, the dread currently etched on Mr. Stark’s face would clear up any confusion. This is what’s real: being forced together at gunpoint, because Peter allowed himself to be charmed by someone who is apparently a sociopath. Yep, his kind of luck. His kind of stupidity. His throat tightens, the urge to sob undeniable.

“Just like that.” Mr. Beck wiggles the gun.

Mr. Stark grinds his teeth. He looks like he might want to say something else, but then he shakes his head and, with a roll of his shoulders, turns to Peter. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Peter’s not sure he’s ever seen him at a loss for words before, not even after Doctor Strange pulled him back from the brink of death on that field.

Of course, almost dying was probably more appealing to him than the prospect of kissing Peter.

“It’s okay,” Peter says quietly. He sounds choked, so it’s not very convincing, but what’s he supposed to do, explain he’s near tears not because he hates the idea, but because he wants this so badly and Mr. Stark doesn’t? That wouldn’t help. “It’s okay, Mr. Stark. We can just…get it over with.”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Mr. Stark looks like Peter just shoved a knife into his chest.

“Come on, I don’t have all night,” Mr. Beck snaps when Mr. Stark continues to sit there, looking stricken. “I assume you know what to do, but I’m more than happy to direct if you’re lost.”

That breaks Mr. Stark out of his stupor. He shoots Mr. Beck an angry glare, then turns his focus entirely on Peter, softening, eyes filling with affection: an expression that throws Peter back to a battlefield in upstate New York, an embrace he hadn’t been expecting and hasn’t been able to forget. Which is not helpful to remember right now, so he shakes the thought away.

Carefully, gently, Mr. Stark brings a hand to Peter’s face, ghosting the back of his fingers across his cheek before cupping his chin. Then, low, not even a whisper, he asks, “How’re you feeling?”

He’s positioned himself so his back is to Mr. Beck, and as he says it he raises an eyebrow. Oh. He’s asking if Peter’s strength is back. Right. Yeah, smart. He’s doing everything he can to get out of this. Peter tests it, pushing himself off the pillows. He can stay up, but barely. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I can’t. I’m—”

“Not your fault.” Mr. Stark wraps his free arm around Peter’s back, helping him stay up. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

And then they’re kissing and Peter wants to die because it’s so much better than he ever imagined. Mr. Stark’s lips are soft, the kiss gentle, tentative: exploring. The brush of beard across skin is straight out of fantasies; Peter can’t hold back a moan, quiet but unmistakable. He has a gun pointed at him and he’s getting hard. What the hell is wrong with him?

He expects Mr. Stark to jerk away, upset he can possibly be enjoying this, but instead he deepens the kiss, hand slipping to the back of Peter’s neck, guiding him closer. The first time he flicks his tongue between Peter’s lips it’s like an explosion in his brain. Holy shit. He’s been kissed before, an awkward bumping of lips at summer camp, but it was nothing, _nothing _like this. He whines, high and needy, and opens his mouth, inviting more.

Mr. Stark pulls him onto his lap in a smooth, twisting movement that puts Peter’s back to the camera, which he would appreciate if it didn’t also bring his rapidly hardening dick precariously close to brushing against Mr. Stark’s stomach. He tries, he _tries _to keep it from happening, but his thighs give out and he collapses, weak, into his lap. Oh god, oh god, _oh god_, there’s no way Mr. Stark can miss the hardness jutting into his thigh. Peter’s never going to be able to look him in the face again.

As if he can read his mind, Mr. Stark runs a comforting hand through his hair.

“It’s okay, kid,” he murmurs as he trails kisses across his cheek and behind his ear. “Normal reaction, it happens. Just tell me if anything changes,” he adds with another meaningful look.

Right, the drugs. If anything changes about the drugs. This is the most sexually satisfying thing to ever happen to Peter, but for Mr. Stark it’s something he’s simply trying to get through, probably messy and pathetically inadequate on top of, you know, the whole kidnapped-and-held-at-gunpoint-to-ruin-his-life thing.

Peter should _not _be enjoying it.

But he can’t help moaning, raw and uncontrollable, as Mr. Stark takes his time, kissing him over and over—his mouth, his face, his neck, deep kisses and sweet pecks and little nips. For whole stretches he gets lost in the pleasure of confident hands guiding him close, knowing lips moving against his skin, his dick throbbing. But then he’ll catch Mr. Stark glancing behind them and he remembers: this isn’t a choice, this isn’t real, Mr. Stark is just buying time until the drug wears off.

Except based on the way the room keeps going slightly tilted at random moments, the drug is not wearing off anytime soon. So much for that plan. Maybe Mr. Stark will think of something else before things go any further.

“Okay, okay, we get the point. Let’s speed this up a little.”

Or not. Time’s up.

Mr. Stark’s jaw tightens, eyes going dark, but he pulls his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing a swath of hard muscle and overlapping scars, the largest a smooth patch where the arc reactor used to sit. Peter can’t help staring, fingers fluttering with a desire to touch. It’s Tony Stark, shirtless, inches away: too close to everything he’s ever wanted for his gut not to twist with need.

“The kid, too,” Mr. Beck instructs, and Peter’s gut twists with something else, something closer to horror. This is actually happening, and there is actually a gun, and a camera, and it’s going to be _recorded_. Released, maybe. Right. Peter grabs the edge of his shirt, but Mr. Beck adds, “No, let Tony do it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ken Burns,” Mr. Stark snarls. “Isn’t your voice-over going to ruin your little documentary?”

“My operation kidnapped Iron Man _and _Spider-Man, but you think we’re incapable of basic film editing? I’m insulted.”

With a resigned sigh, Mr. Stark tugs Peter’s shirt over his head, tossing it to the side, glancing over his body for less than a second before returning to his face. Peter wonders exactly how embarrassed he looks, on a scale of one to “just let him shoot me already.” Because he’s feeling about a “I want to sink into the ground and never come back out.”

Whatever expression he’s wearing must be enough to make Mr. Stark feel sorry for him, because he forces a lopsided smile, running a hand down Peter’s chest and over his abs, making his cock twitch, adding to the wet spot on his pants. Another thing to be embarrassed about.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re unbelievably gorgeous?” Mr. Stark asks, tone reverent enough that for a moment Peter almost believes him. Almost. It’s sweet that he’s trying to make him feel better about this, but hearing those words when he knows they’re a lie hurts more than it helps, so Peter leans forward to kiss him before he feels obligated to say more. As he does, he shifts and—

And for the first time all night Mr. Stark moans. At the same time Peter’s world goes sideways, because _wow_. That is Tony Stark’s dick. Hard. Pressing against his thigh. Which—

“Sorry, normal bodily function,” Mr. Stark says. Right. Which, nothing. It means nothing. Obviously. Stimulation is stimulation; Mr. Stark is probably busy imagining Peter is anyone else.

Peter goes back to kissing him. That way, he won’t be able to see the tears in his eyes.

\---

It continues like that: Mr. Stark soft and gentle, moving to the next step only when Mr. Beck barks an instruction. He traces Peter’s muscles, pinches his nipples, licks the hollow of his collarbone, making encouraging noises whenever Peter tenses or whimpers.

“Forget he’s here,” he whispers against his neck, sucking. “Forget it’s me. Just try to enjoy it.”

Peter does try, closing his eyes, focusing on the feel of calloused fingers dancing across his skin. The scent of Mr. Stark’s cologne, his sweat, the spice of him, the ragged edge to his breathing. The little sounds he makes—sounds that almost, _almost_ seem like real groans of pleasure—as Peter tries to imitate him, biting inexpertly at his lip, touching his skin, rubbing his scars, grabbing his hips.

_Try_. As if he doesn’t love everything about this, except the part where it’s not real. The part where Mr. Stark wants him to pretend it’s _not _him. Is it kind of a betrayal that he’s doing the opposite?

At yet another disgruntled instruction to go faster, Mr. Stark pushes Peter back onto the bed and crawls on top, positioning them to shield Peter from the camera as much as possible. Protecting him. Warmth blooms in Peter’s chest, bittersweet. Mr. Stark might not want him, but he does care; he’s trying, even now, even after Peter got them into this, to make sure he’s okay. 

Maybe it’s that flush of feeling making him momentarily forget, but when Mr. Stark’s lips return to Peter’s neck and their chests slide together, slick with sweat, Peter can’t stop himself from rutting up, seeking pressure, chasing pleasure.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he pants, holding back another thrust, barely. His back arches, toes curling to grip the hotel’s soft comforter. “Sorry, I shouldn’t—”

In response, Mr. Stark rolls his hips, encouraging Peter to move. He does, balls tightening, body alight, his need drowning out everything else he should be feeling: fear and shame reduced to a dull throb behind the eyes, barely noticeable.

“Whatever you want,” Mr. Stark insists, drawing back to look Peter in the eyes. His are dark and wide, startling in a face gone flush. He rocks, matching Peter’s movements. “You deserve whatever you want, Pete.”

Then he ducks and kisses him again, forceful and taking; murmurs against his lips, “You’re incredible, kid.”

That’s what does it: the fondness in his voice makes Peter come with a startled shudder, sticky mess filling his boxers.

“Oh god, oh god, I’m sorry,” he sputters, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see whatever disgusted expression Mr. Stark is wearing.

He’s surprised by a swift kiss on his forehead, a hissed, “Kid, if you don’t stop apologizing I’m going to get annoyed.” Mr. Stark rolls away, but he leaves one hand gently stroking Peter’s hair. Which is really, really nice. Ridiculously nice. He’s so nice.

Peter opens his eyes to see Mr. Stark sitting next to him, gazing down with an expression Peter can’t read at all. After a few beats, he looks up at Mr. Beck.

“Okay,” he says, gesturing at Peter, “the kid came. We good here?”

Mr. Beck laughs, harsh and derisive. “Do you really think the public will be satisfied with that?”

Mr. Stark’s fingers curl into Peter’s hair as he looks around the room, eyes bouncing from Mr. Beck to the camera to Peter and then back again. Calculating, thinking—trying to figure out how to save the day, always.

(How to save himself from the ordeal of going any further with Peter. That, too.)

“Okay, Terry Richardson, how about I jack off while he lies here?” Mr. Stark offers. He spreads the palm of his free hand. “What do you think? Makes me seem pretty weird, kinda creepy. People eat that shit up. Sexual perversions of the rich and famous, etc., etc. Way more exciting than your standard issue sex tape, if you ask me. More bang for your—well, not buck I suppose, but kidnapping energies.”

For a second, it seems like Mr. Beck is really considering it, scratching his beard as he observes them. Then he laughs quietly. “You know, that could work.” Mr. Stark relaxes visibly, but that only lasts as long as it takes for Mr. Beck to set his face in another evil grin. “It _could _work, but it would need a little extra something. _Tony Stark Dry Humps Teen, Jacks Off Near Him_—sorry, it’s not as good as _Tony Stark Fucks Underage Boy_. But _Tony Stark Dry Humps Spider-Man_, now _that _has potential.”

Peter swears he can feel his heart stop, really stop at the image of his secret spilled across every front page in the country. Mr. Stark’s hand in his hair goes still.

“You wouldn’t.” He sounds threatening, deadly, even though he has nothing to back it up, not in this moment.

“I think that’s up to you,” Mr. Beck says with a shrug. “You know the options.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes flick down to Peter. “Your choice, kid,” he says, and Peter can tell he’s trying to make his voice calm. “It’s your life.”

This isn’t fair. Peter knows, he knows exactly which he chooses. No question: something he’s wanted, even if it is perverted and made terrible, or the one thing he’s been trying to avoid forever? But…that’s selfish, right? It’s selfish. “Sir, I can’t ask you to…to…”

He can’t say it out loud, but apparently Mr. Stark understands, because he drops forward to kiss Peter’s cheek. “I’ll do anything for you,” he whispers in his ear. “I don’t mind. Not my first time at the rodeo. If you want to keep going, we keep going.”

Feeling all the heat in his body rush to his face, Peter nods. “Keep going, then. Please?”

Mr. Stark pulls him into another gentle kiss. It’s sweet enough to make it seem, for a second, like this won’t be so bad.

That flicker of hope burns out when Mr. Beck interrupts with an annoyed, “Cut it with this romance crap.” When Mr. Stark sits back up, frowning, he adds, “No one is interested in seeing you lovingly take the kid’s virginity.”

Peter lets out an embarrassed squeaking sound, which makes Mr. Beck chuckle and _wow_, how did Peter ever think this guy was anything but disgusting?

“Sorry to make assumptions, Peter but—well, I have met you.” He lazily waves the gun. “I think it’s time we cut to the chase. Pants off.”

Mr. Stark stares at Peter with fresh horror, as if maybe he hadn’t registered this is obviously his first time.

“Mr. Stark, _it’s fine_,” Peter insists. Because seriously, it is. He’s the one who picked this option. To prove the point, he grabs his own pants and pulls them down, tossing them off the side of the bed. They fall with a dull thud to the carpeted floor. He regrets the sudden movement when another wave of disorientation washes over him. He takes a deep breath. “For the record, I think the drug is getting worse?”

“Very likely,” Mr. Beck muses. “Tony, if you take too much longer, you may end up fucking him while he’s passed out. How do you think that will play in the press?”

“You’ve made your point,” Mr. Stark mutters, looking murderous. He hops off the bed to strip off his pants. He keeps his underwear on, but the large bulge leaves very little to the imagination; Peter has an urge to bury his face in the dark curls that peek out around the side of the tight black briefs. “Okay, kid, head on the pillows.”

“Oh, no, that won’t work. If you hide his face, how will people be able to tell how young he is? No, I’m thinking hands and knees, facing the camera.” Mr. Beck’s tone is mocking in its nonchalance, as if he’s having a conversation about arranging the furniture. When no one responds, he prods, “Well? You heard me.”

Mr. Stark looks like he’s thinking of rushing Mr. Beck, lack of suit be damned. Peter scrambles to follow the instructions, room swaying. “Come on, Mr. Stark, please? Before I can’t hold myself up?”

It’s mostly said to stop Mr. Stark from getting himself shot, but it’s also a little true. His arms have gone from mushy to trembling, muscles near buckling.

“Lube is in the bedside table,” Mr. Beck offers, cheerfully. Helpful. The tone he took when talking people through lab experiments. It makes Peter nauseous. “Oh, and Tony? Throw in a little dirty talk. To keep the people entertained.”

\---

Mr. Stark preps Peter with the determined precision of a scientist, slipping his boxers off and pushing one slicked finger, then a second, into him, uncomfortable intrusions that turn into something more pleasant as he moves in slow thrusts, voice warm with murmured encouragement.

“You’re doing so well,” he says, as he adds a third finger. “God, look at you.”

It’s his words as much as the feel of his fingers that makes Peter’s cock fill again, chest tight with an emotion that is more than lust. He’d always dreamed Mr. Stark would be like this: kind, encouraging, _proud_.

Just…not because a madman told him to be dirty. That was not part of the dreams.

“Oh, look at that, he’s getting excited again,” Mr. Beck observes, dryly. “Tony, I think he might actually like you. And here I thought he was hot for teacher. I’m a bit jealous. Or maybe the little slut is just ready to go with anyone.”

“Ignore him,” Mr. Stark murmurs, voice suddenly behind Peter’s ear. He plants a kiss on his shoulder. “You’re amazing.”

“Oh my _god_, be a little meaner!” The gun is waving again. “Start fucking him.”

At that, the fingers disappear, leaving Peter’s muscles clenching with relief and emptiness. He whines at the loss, not sure if he’s asking for more or dreading what’s next. The room is starting to pulse and tilt, even with his eyes closed. The effort of keeping straight overwhelms him; he only half follows an exchange about condoms. There aren’t any, he catches that. Mr. Stark seems upset about it, but Peter doesn’t mind. Mr. Stark is probably clean, and if not, that’s what super-healing is for.

Then the talking stops and there’s something hard and wide prodding at his entrance. Mr. Stark’s dick. That’s Mr. Stark’s dick. Peter moans at the idea. Mr. Stark runs a hand up his spine. He shivers and arches away from the touch; too much.

“Hey, Pete? I need you to relax for me. Can you do that? Just relax.”

Relax. Okay, right. He’s watched enough porn to understand why that’s necessary.

He focuses on the hand that continues to trace patterns across his skin, letting the soothing circles guide him, giving into the way his drugged muscles naturally want to fall apart. Finally, Mr. Stark enters him, letting out the smallest sigh, a rumbled sound of pleasure that shoots straight through Peter. His own cock bounces on his stomach, smearing precome.

Mr. Stark keeps pushing in, slowly, so slowly, one hand braced on Peter’s hip, the other gripping his shoulder, praise coming fast and low: “That’s it,” “You’re doing so well,” “Good job.”

By the time his balls smack Peter’s ass, Peter’s eyes are rolling back, body covered in sweat. He’s given up on being quiet, letting small whimpers escape his throat. The feeling is somewhere between pleasure and pain: less good or bad than _consuming_.

“Mr. Stark,” he whispers, and it sounds like begging.

“Fuck,” Mr. Stark replies, as if it’s been ripped from his chest. “Fuck, Peter, you’re perfect.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Beck snarls. Peter keeps his eyes closed; he doesn’t need to see the gun waving in their direction, faint metallic threat floating in the air. “Start moving. Hard. And call him a whore or something. Be the asshole you actually are.”

“He’s not an asshole!” Peter protests before he can think it through. “_You’re _the asshole.”

A deadly quiet falls over the room. Mr. Stark stills, and for one heart-stopping moment, Peter is afraid he just got them both killed. But then Mr. Beck laughs, low, and says, “One day, loyalty like that is going to get you in trouble, Mr. Parker. But I’ll let it slide this time, since you were such a good student. Tony? _Move_.”

So Mr. Stark does, hands spreading across Peter’s hips. His thrusts start slow, as methodical as his prep had been, controlled and smooth, dragging more whimpers out of Peter from the sheer strangeness of it, the intimacy, the knowledge that _Mr. Stark _is _inside him_.

Then he changes the angle, and Peter’s world explodes into pleasure, orgasm ripped out of him from nowhere, so unexpected his arms actually buckle, face hitting the mattress.

Mr. Stark is still moving, not slowing down. Getting faster, because Mr. Beck tells him to. It’s too much, Peter realizes, trying to catch his breath, trying to prop himself back up, trying to do anything. He can’t, he _can’t_. He opens his eyes, sees the barrel of the gun pointed straight in his direction, and above that, Mr. Beck, smirking. His lips move, but Peter can’t make out the words over the sound of whining, pained and overstimulated.

Oh. Right. That’s him. He’s making those sounds.

And _fuck_, Mr. Stark is really pounding into him now, holding his useless body up, hands bruising his hips. He’s making noises, too, grunts and sighs, and between that words which have lost their kindness, responding to Mr. Beck’s instructions. “Oh, you like this? I bet you do, you greedy little slut. It’s like you’re made for this. Made for me, all mine…”

Peter feels himself getting hard again and it’s too much, way too much. But he can’t say that, because Mr. Stark can’t know, he _can’t_, he’s already doing so much for Peter, he can’t make him feel worse—

It goes on, and on, Peter’s mind slipping, the world collapsed into nothing but the electric shock of overworked nerves and the cotton scent of the comforter shoved in his face, until Mr. Stark’s rhythm gets erratic, harder and suddenly he shouts, pushing deeper, throbbing. Peter feels something warm flooding him.

So this is what that’s like. Good to know.

Mr. Stark collapses next to him, pulling him close, covering his back with kisses, maybe trying to be comforting. It’s nice, almost, but also still too much, sending little bursts of pained arousal down his spine. But Peter can’t catch his breath, can’t hear anything over the bursting rhythm of his heart. Definitely can’t make words. He doesn’t even notice when Mr. Beck gets close, until he makes a sudden jabbing movement and Mr. Stark yelps in pain.

“Just a tranquilizer,” Mr. Beck explains, dancing away before Mr. Stark can grab him. “Can’t have you calling your people before we get the video out. Besides, it’ll be more convincing when the paparazzi catch you leaving this luxury establishment tomorrow.” The triumphant hatred in his voice is so palpable Peter can practically taste it. “The great Tony Stark, finally revealed for the monster he is. Have a good night.”

As Mr. Beck sweeps out of the room, door shutting behind him with an ominous slam, Mr. Stark rolls Peter over. The movement makes him moan. Everything is spinning now, he feels like he might vomit. Mr. Stark is saying something, tone soft and urgent, using a blanket to dab at Peter’s face, but Peter can’t follow.

“It’s okay,” he mutters, as consciousness flickers out. Or at least, he thinks he mutters it. He’s not sure. He hopes so. “We’re okay, Mr. Stark. We’re okay.”

\---

He’s sticky. That’s the first thing Peter feels when he wakes up: dry sweat across his body, thick liquid dripping between his legs. He’s lying on his belly even though he never falls asleep like that; there’s a weight pressing down on his back. He drags his eyes, heavy and crusted with sleep, open, and realizes the weight is Mr. Stark’s arm. Right.

_Right_.

Oh, fuck.

That actually happened.

Mr. Stark is still asleep, head tilted away from Peter, bare chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Peter lets his eyes sweep down his body, somewhere between disappointed and relieved that the comforter covers him from the hips down. Disappointed because—well. Relieved because he knows he shouldn’t want that. It would be unfair, it’s not like Mr. Stark _chose _to be naked in bed with him.

Peter gently slides out from under his arm, peeling himself off the sheets that cling, stubborn, to his body. Mr. Beck must’ve closed the blinds, but the sun is leaking through the sides. In the light, Peter can see the room is really nice, way nicer than any hotel he’s been in before: huge, starkly modern, all whites and metal, with a sweeping glass-top desk and a loveseat in the corner that barely looks big enough for two. The kind of room that photographs well, but isn’t actually very welcoming. Doesn’t matter. It’s not like he’s looking to stay.

The shower is huge, with a glass door, blinding white tiles, and extra showerheads on the side which, after a little fiddling, he figures out how to turn on. He focuses intently on the task, as if that’s enough to make him forget Mr. Stark’s hands sliding across his skin, the rub of his beard behind his ear, the husk in his voice as he called Peter a _greedy little slut_, _made for him_—

Peter turns the water as hot as it goes and jacks off, leaning against cool slippery tile as images from the night before consume him. When he’s done, he grabs a bar of soap, ripping it out of its box, scrubbing himself until he hurts, scouring between his thighs and up his ass, around his balls, not sure if he’s trying to wash away the evidence of what happened, or the knowledge of how much he liked it.

\---

When he wanders back into the main room, wrapped in a robe that falls past his knees, soft and luxurious in a way he can’t find the mental space to enjoy, Mr. Stark is awake, back in the slacks and band t-shirt he must’ve been wearing when Mr. Beck abducted him, barking into the hotel phone. When he sees Peter he freezes—just for a moment, but it’s impossible to miss, maybe the first time Peter has ever understood what the phrase “deer in headlights” is supposed to mean. Then he flicks his eyes away, and goes back to snapping instructions at whoever’s on the other side of the call.

While Mr. Stark yells, Peter finds his clothes, which have been folded neatly on top of the dresser. He puts them on, despite the fact that his skin is still raw and red from the burning shower, jeans rough and uncomfortable. He notices Mr. Stark look away when he drops the robe to pull on his shirt.

Of course he does. Because Peter is the only one who actually wanted what happened last night. Who enjoyed it—kind of, anyway—as fucked up as that is.

He really wants to go lie down next to Mr. Stark, curl up against his body, feel his fingers run through his hair, scratching and rubbing circles. But that’s not an option anywhere except Peter’s head, so he resigns himself to the loveseat, which is at least more comfortable then it looks. He draws his knees up and rests his chin on them, shaking away his longing and concentrating on what Mr. Stark is saying. It sounds like the video is out—Mr. Beck got it up fast, he must’ve known he only had until Mr. Stark woke up—but there’s already a team working on response. Release Beck’s profile, his involvement with B.A.R.F.—which as far as Peter can gather is connected to why he hates Mr. Stark—spin the whole thing as a really, really high-tech fake.

Peter groans and buries his head in his knees. That might work, but it’s not going to make going to school any easier. And May—shit. May must be freaking out. Peter’s phone is in the pocket of his jeans, but it’s dead.

“I already called your aunt, kid,” says Mr. Stark. Peter looks up, startled. The hotel phone has been hung up. “Told her you’re safe with me.”

“Oh,” Peter says, inelegantly. 

“I fed her the official line—I assume you heard what that is?—but you can tell her the truth, if you want. I realize she’d hunt me down and beat me to death with one of those date loaves of hers, but…you can tell whoever you want. Up to you. I think the SI PR department will have a heart attack if you go to the press, but…really, it is up to you. It’s all up to you.”

Peter tries to read the expression on Mr. Stark’s face, but it’s so pointedly blank that all he can tell for sure is he doesn’t want Peter to know what he’s thinking.

“Um, okay.” His voice sounds small and young to his own ears. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t help. “I don’t…I’m not going to tell the press, obviously. I don’t think I want to tell May, either. Or…anyone.”

He imagines what that would be like. It would absolutely break May, no way. She wouldn’t understand why Peter didn’t hate it more than he did, and if she _did _understand that she’d probably force him to stop seeing Mr. Stark, which would be the worst possible outcome. He could tell Ned, maybe, but he’d ask so many questions and…yeah. No.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he repeats, more confident. “Definitely not.”

Mr. Stark remains inscrutable as he peers at Peter. “I won’t hold you to that if you change your mind. Do whatever is best for you, Pete. Don’t worry about what it would mean for me.”

Peter wants to protest. None of this would’ve happened if_ he_ hadn’t been dumb enough to trust his literally too cool to be real teacher. He _wants _to worry about Mr. Stark. But there’s an intensity in Mr. Stark’s eyes that makes Peter sure that saying any of that would just lead to an argument, so he nods. “Okay, got it.”

That’s met with a small smile. “How about we get you home? Your aunt yelled my ear off while you were in the shower. If I keep you much longer she might murder me with the date loaf today, no extra information required.”

\---

They can’t avoid the paparazzi coming out of the hotel, but that’s already built into the cover story: Mr. Beck drugged them and put them in the hotel together as part of the setup. Keep it as close to the truth as possible, Mr. Stark explains as they sit in the back of a car driven by an emotionless S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He doesn’t mention the part of the truth they’re leaving out, a gaping hole in the story that threatens to swallow them both. But it’s there in every movement, in the way he pointedly _doesn’t _touch Peter, not even a casual brush of the hand. Not once. 

\---

When Peter gets home, May grabs him by the shoulders, insists he tell her it really didn’t happen. Insists again, and then again, needing so badly to know that he’s okay: he can hear it in her voice, feel it in the fingers that dig into his arms as she examines his face. She can normally see right through him, but he does his best, forcing a smile.

“Really May, nothing happened! I mean, I guess he drugged us? But I just woke up in a nice hotel. Not bad, for a kidnapping.”

She tugs at his hair, which he belatedly realizes is still damp. “Did you shower? Why did you shower?”

“Because…it was the morning?” He tries to make it sound casual. “Besides, it was a _really _nice shower. I wanted to try it. I mean, May, this hotel was _so_ fancy.”

She relaxes after that, bundling him into a hug and insisting on treating him to a big takeout lunch. He lets her. Manages to make it through an entire day of her hovering without giving himself away, holding back tears with a slight burn in his throat. When he finally gets to bed, he collapses on top of the blanket, too exhausted to cry.

\---

School is harder to deal with. It’s all anyone can talk about, the buzz of his name so loud he can’t think straight. People keep going silent when he walks by, unaware that he can hear their speculation from down the hall—the _Mr. Beck, can you believe it? _and _No way_, _Peter Parker?_ and _I don’t know, it looked pretty real_, and_ Man, I guess he really _does _know Tony Stark_. He doesn’t know which is worse: the people who look at him with sympathy, or the ones that leer with jeering interest.

He recites the official story to Ned, who cheerfully believes him, and, in his good-natured way, tries to spin it. “You got to hang out in a five-star hotel with Tony Stark! That’s pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah, pretty cool,” Peter lies.

MJ claims to accept the story too, but she keeps shooting him suspicious glances all day. Flash won’t shut up, moaning and thrusting in Peter’s direction, repeating phrases from the video verbatim, until a teacher overhears and sends him to the principal’s office. Peter is too worn out to get satisfaction out of that.

By the time he gets home all he has energy to do is sink onto the couch and watch a movie.

\---

The next day, it’s rinse and repeat. Then the day after that. Day four, he reaches his limit. It’s Flash, who apparently learned nothing from his trip to the principal’s office, calling him a “little slut” that pushes him over the edge. He dashes to the bathroom and locks himself in a stall before he does something stupid, like literally rip his high school bully’s arms off.

Before he can even think about it, he’s calling Mr. Stark. To his shock, he picks up after the first ring.

“Kid? Is everything okay?” There’s real panic in his voice, and Peter realizes he must be worried something else has happened to him. Right. That’s why he answered so quickly. Duh.

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” he says hurriedly. “Everything’s fine. I—sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Nuh-uh. You called for a reason. Tell me what it is.” 

Mr. Stark’s tone is insistent, but under that, warm enough that Peter can feel a lump forming in his throat, a Pavlovian response to how badly he wants to be closer to it.

“This really sucks, Mr. Stark,” he admits. “It’s all anyone will talk about, and this kid Flash won’t stop quoting the video at me and—”

“He _what_?” Mr. Stark snaps. “Who do I need to call to get him transferred to another school?”

“What? No! Sir, that’s not why—don’t do that!”

“Then what do you want, kid?” Mr. Stark still sounds ready to murder someone.

Why _did _he call? It was instinct really. “I just hate being here right now, and you’re the only person who understands and, and—” Oh god, he sounds like he’s about to cry. He _is _about to cry, but sounding like it to Mr. Stark is the embarrassing part. “I just wanted to talk to you,” he adds, incredibly lamely. 

There’s a long silence on the other end. Finally, Mr. Stark says, “Okay, message received. I’ll fix it.”

“You’ll fix it? What does that mean? Mr. Stark?”

“Don’t worry about it, just go back to class for now.”

“What? Sir—please tell me—don’t transfer Flash!” But he’s talking into a dead phone.

He sighs, wipes his eyes on the inside of his sleeves, and heads back to class.

\---

Apparently Mr. Stark’s idea of fixing it is to call May and convince her that because they still haven’t caught Mr. Beck, it would be safer for Peter to come stay at the newly repurchased and refurbished Avengers tower.

Well, half convince her, anyway.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks, watching as Peter eagerly throws whatever clean clothing he can find into Uncle Ben’s old suitcase. “Will you be able to keep up with your schoolwork? Junior year is really important for college…”

As if he’s thinking about college right now. “May, I’ll be fine. I’ll have Tony Stark as a private tutor, that’s pretty good.”

Her eyes narrow, fingers drumming against his door-frame. “Uh-huh. I’m not sure that’s comforting.” Then, softer, she adds, “You promise nothing bad happened with him?”

Peter quickly hides his cringe behind an eye-roll. “Yeah, May, how many times do I have to tell you? And according to Mr. Stark something bad _could _happen to me now, so it really seems like staying at the tower is a great idea.”

He hates lying to her. One more reason he’s glad to be headed anywhere other than here.


	2. Chapter 2

When he gets to the tower, Happy is there to greet him.

Happy, not Mr. Stark.

Peter tries not to be offended. Wants to believe Mr. Stark really does have a meeting he can’t get out of, even though Peter’s pretty sure there’s no such thing, not really. Listens closely to the briefing about security codes and biometric scanners, the instructions about when the cafeteria is open (“There’s a cafeteria?” “Yeah. People work here, you understand that, right?”) and where to do laundry. He’s genuinely excited when he finds out he’ll be staying on Mr. Stark’s private floor, but his room ends up being disappointingly far away from his mentor’s even-more-private hall, which is sealed off behind a heavy, secure door. Still, there’s a shared living room with a large entertainment center, a big kitchen, even a small gym.

Plus, someone has to make sure he does his homework, right? They’re definitely going to see each other. Like, a lot. And then maybe they’ll get over whatever lingering _whatever _is between them, the thing that made Mr. Stark so distant that morning. He invited Peter into his home, so he must be ready to move on, too, right?

\---

Peter should be used to disappointment by now. He really should. But it stings when Mr. Stark doesn’t see him that night. F.R.I.D.A.Y. reports that Mr. Stark apologizes, but he won’t be able to make it back until very late, Peter should make himself at home, order whatever he wants to eat, and get to bed early.

“He’s very sorry,” she offers when Peter groans at the news.

“Not sorry enough to tell me himself,” he grumbles. Mr. Stark has Peter’s number, but no. He has to hear it through an AI. He turns back to his homework with a sigh.

\---

He wants to tough it out, stay up until Mr. Stark gets back, but has to admit defeat after the second time he falls asleep on the couch. Still being awake would be one thing. Being asleep in the living room, making it clear he’d _tried _to stay up on purpose and failed, like a kid waiting for Santa—that would be pathetic. Reluctantly, he slinks off to his bed around midnight.

He falls asleep almost immediately, only to be startled awake an undefinable amount of time later by a rustle outside his door, the pad of shoes on carpet. He jolts up, listening closely. There’s definitely someone there, breathing heavily. When he closes his eyes and concentrates on smell he can make out the faintest trace of Mr. Stark’s cologne—it reminds him of his nose pressed against warm skin, an image he gulps down, dick twitching—and a much less faint trace of alcohol.

His fingers curl into his blankets as he waits, muscles tense, barely breathing. Something has to happen, right? Mr. Stark must be here for a reason. Does he want to say hello after all?

But after a minute, maybe less, Peter hears a shaky sigh.

“Don’t be stupid, Tony,” Mr. Stark mutters, words a little slurred. “Leave him alone.”

And then he’s shuffling off. Peter almost springs out of bed; images of running after him, grabbing him by the shoulder, pulling him close and begging him to do anything _but_ leave him alone swim through his head. But he can’t. That would be—immature. Desperate.

He’ll see him in the morning.

\---

Except that in the morning, F.R.I.D.A.Y. has a new message: Mr. Stark has been unexpectedly called away on business, and won’t be back for a few days. Peter is free to use the lab in the meantime, and Happy is going to check in on him to make sure he’s doing his work.

“So don’t think you can get away with playing videogames all day, young man,” she chirps in what might be an attempt to imitate the mock-stern tone Mr. Stark gets when he pretends to scold Peter. It’s not the same coming in her lilting accent.

“Are you serious?” Peter complains, looking up at the ceiling even though he knows F.R.I. isn’t really there, she’s everywhere. “Is he avoiding me?”

“Mr. Stark wanted me to tell you he was called away on business,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. repeats, which isn’t a no.

Fantastic. He got away from being mocked at school just to come here and be mocked by the emptiness of the living space he thought they were going to share.

\---

The next few days pass with the agonizing sluggishness of a really boring class, each hour stretching impossibly long, until Peter feels like he’s going to snap. He does all of his homework and makeup school assignments until he runs out of material. He chats Happy’s ear off whenever he drops by to check in. He cooks complicated meals with the groceries F.R.I. has delivered after he discovers the cupboards are empty, aside from alcohol and a few cans of soup that look like they’ve been hiding there since before the first move. He wanders the empty wing of the building, taking advantage of the gym, watching TV, exploring the other guest bedrooms. Turns out he’s been given the largest one, which makes something inside him glow, until he realizes that was probably F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s call, or maybe Happy. Not Mr. Stark.

He even, on day two, attempts to get into Mr. Stark’s private quarters, but it quickly becomes clear that’s not happening; the panel that controls access makes angry sounds when he pokes at the keypad. Defeated, he leans his head against the cool metal of the security door. If he closes his eyes and really focuses, he thinks he can make out the faintest trace of Mr. Stark’s scent. Maybe. He stays like that for a few minutes, until a concerned inquiry about his health from F.R.I. breaks him out of his trance. It’s probably just the placebo effect, and even if it’s not, sniffing at the door of your mentor who barely wants to see you is very, incredibly weird, if not downright creepy.

“Can you not tell Mr. Stark about this?” Peter asks as he pulls away from the door.

“Nothing to tell,” F.R.I. replies kindly. Peter’s pretty sure she and Karen have been chatting a lot now that he’s taken up residence in the tower; that might explain why she’s being so nice to him. If so, he owes Karen a big thank you.

Because, yeah. Being stuck here alone is starting to make him a bit loopy.

\---

That night, he wakes up from a dream he can hardly remember, just limbs and moaning and praise, the taste of Mr. Stark’s skin on his tongue, the thrill of his scent dancing down his spine. He’s achingly hard and close to crying from a need he can’t name, that isn’t satisfied when he shoves his hands down his pants and comes with a quiet, disappointed shudder.

\---

On day four he finally goes down to the lab. He’d been avoiding it because even though Mr. Stark’s labs are always awesome—and the one at the tower turns out to be as impressive as the old one at the compound, and better than the SI labs they’d been meeting at since the Blip—the best part normally isn’t the groundbreaking tech or opportunity to explore whatever ideas pop into his head, it’s being there _with Mr. Stark_. His insights are invaluable; the pleased smile he gets when Peter thinks of something really smart more affirmation than any grade on a test or school award.

And when he gestures Peter over, hand falling to his back as he explains what he’s working on, asks for his opinion, asks for his _help _like he really wants to hear what he thinks? Those are right up there with swinging through the city and taking down bad guys as the best moments of Peter’s life.

They’ve had a lot of those moments since the Blip. Mr. Stark had seemed eager for his company, encouraging him to come by as often as he wanted, even setting it up so he could get school credit once it became clear his “internship” was turning into an actual internship. Maybe it was loneliness that made Mr. Stark want him around, Peter’s not sure.

Whatever the reason, after that, even the best workspace in the world feels like a letdown when he’s in it by himself. Still, he’s dying of boredom, and he has a new web fluid design he’s been meaning to work on. So he faces the empty lab and gets going.

\---

He works late that night, then stays up watching movies, hoping Mr. Stark will come back, afraid of dreaming about something that should be horrific but really just leaves him lonely.

He falls asleep on the couch, and when he wakes up the next morning, Mr. Stark still isn’t there.

\---

He finally comes back late the next evening. Peter’s down in the lab, working on version 3.0 of his new fluid. The first attempt came out too sticky, jamming in the slingers. The second blew up in his face; even after a shower, bits of it still cling in his curls, and his shirt was ruined.

The latest attempt is looking promising, and he’s so absorbed in his work he doesn’t realize someone has come down to the lab until the door clicks shut. He spins, and then his heart nearly stops. There he is: Tony Stark, impossibly composed, crisp suit, every hair in place, beard trimmed. The only sign that he’s been traveling for nearly a week is a slight paleness around his cheeks, a thinness under the eyes.

Peter suddenly feels hopelessly sloppy. He tries to pull some of the strands of webbing out of his hair as he stammers, “Mr. Stark, h-hi. I wasn’t—welcome back!”

Mr. Stark lingers at the door, staring at Peter in disbelief. After a few beats he collects himself and says, with false cheer, “Kid! What’re you doing down here so late?”

Oh. Peter glances at his phone. It’s 10:30. Oh, right. Mr. Stark definitely didn’t expect to run into him down here. Maybe, he realizes, stomach sinking, he even came here instead of going to his room because he didn’t want to risk running into Peter in their shared living space.

“I’m, uh, I got caught up in work,” Peter explains. It’s definitely not that he’s been afraid to go to sleep, or that he’d been hoping for this exact encounter. Well, not this exact one. In his mind, it involved more smiles, maybe even a hug, not Mr. Stark’s eyes darting around the room like he’s looking for an escape.

“Well, I certainly understand that.” Mr. Stark takes a few steps into the room, maybe realizing there’s no way out of this now. “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it?” Fuck. That came out before Peter could stop himself, cold and accusing. He backtracks immediately, adding, “How were your meetings? Were they...business-y?”

Mr. Stark’s lips twitch around the edges. They’ve always had fun mocking the business side of SI, Mr. Stark complaining about the dull paperwork, Peter playing up his own ignorance of how these things operate. It’s a shared bond, a teasing acknowledgement that they have the same priorities: the science and the super heroing. “Yeah, very business-y. Lots of corporate bullshit.”

“It must’ve been a lot, if it took five whole days.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes narrow at Peter’s skepticism, but rather than hit back with similar sarcasm, he replies, quite earnestly, “It wasn’t all business, kid. I didn’t want to scare you, but a lot of my time was spent trying to find Beck. Unsuccessfully.”

“Oh.” Peter wasn’t expecting that. He knows the lingering threat of Mr. Beck was the excuse Mr. Stark used to get him to the tower. He hadn’t thought it was a lie, exactly, but he also hadn’t been worried about it. Between SI and S.H.I.E.L.D., he assumed someone must’ve been tracking him, just waiting to set the right trap to draw him out, something like that. “You can’t find him? S.H.I.E.L.D.? Really?”

“His tech is good, and it’s a big world.” Mr. Stark sighs, rubbing his temples. “I know you wanted out of school, but honestly, Pete, I was thinking about asking you to come stay here even before that call. I don’t like that we can’t find him. I don’t like—I don’t like any of it.”

His shoulders are slumped, Peter realizes. How had he missed that? He looks weighed down, heavy and exhausted under the perfect exterior. Peter’s been sitting here, complaining to himself about being ignored, and this whole time Mr. Stark was out there trying to track down the person who did this, juggling everything, carrying burdens Peter can’t begin to understand.

He wants to apologize for being annoyed, but he has no idea how, so instead he says, “I’m sure you’ll catch him soon.”

“Hope so.” Mr. Stark straightens, claps his hands together, throws a big, fake smile, as if trying to lighten the mood. “So, have you been settling in okay? Keeping up with your work?”

“Way ahead on my work.” Because he’s been lonely, but that seems unfair to add. He tries to match Mr. Stark’s smile. “Everything’s been great! I really appreciate you putting me up. And it’s going to be even more fun now that you’re back!”

Mr. Stark’s smile falters, contorting almost into a grimace. He doesn’t quite meet Peter’s eyes as he replies, “Oh. Um, I should warn you: I won’t be around a lot. I still have…meetings. A lot of meetings. And this Beck thing, and…I’m just very busy, Pete. But if you’re bored, I can look into getting you a tutor, or maybe get Rhodey over, or—”

“No,” Peter cuts in, before Mr. Stark’s rambling attempt to cover his discomfort gets even more painful. “No, it’s fine. I’m not—I was just excited to see you. But you’re busy, I get it. You’re really important.”

Really important, and also clearly not ready to be around Peter. Which makes sense. Peter’s probably the weird one for wanting to cling tighter now, after something that should leave him scarred and unhappy. He gets that. Just because Mr. Stark had been kind to him in the moment, had tried his best to make what they were forced to do as palatable as possible, doesn’t mean it was anything other than traumatic for him. Peter should probably be grateful he’s even willing to be in the same room.

“Well,” he adds, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else, to hide in privacy before the tears that prickle at the edge of his eyes break through, “I guess I should probably go to bed. I, uh, I was working on a new web fluid design, if you want to check it out? Or not! I’m sure you’re really busy. But if you’re curious it’s”—he waves at his workplace, scrambling to his feet—“here.”

Mr. Stark doesn’t say anything, doesn’t stop him, moves aside so their arms don’t brush when Peter rushes past. As if he needs more proof that he can barely stand to be near him.

\---

To his surprise, by the time he’s gotten upstairs, made a cup of tea to try to loosen the unhappy knot in his stomach, brushed his teeth, and settled into bed, Peter has a text from Mr. Stark.

_New design is impressive, kid_, it says. _I have a few ideas, left notes. But it’s really great._

Peter clutches the phone to his chest, curling in on himself. It feels like an apology, or an attempt to reach out, as if he’s saying, “I can’t be around you, but I don’t _entirely_ hate you.”

He’s not sure if it makes him feel better or worse.

\---

He wakes up to the sound of glass shattering and the word “Fuck” yelped in surprise. He flails in his bed, panicked, until he puts things together. Mr. Stark is back, right. He must’ve broken something in the living area, which is a hallway away, but not so far that Peter can’t hear what’s happening there.

He grabs his phone to check the time. Five in the morning. Damn, and he thought _he _slept poorly. He listens carefully, picks up glass tinkling, more soft cursing. It kind of sounds like Mr. Stark isn’t doing a great job cleaning up whatever mess he made.

That’s why Peter gets out of bed, smoothing his messy hair and pulling flannel PJ bottoms over his boxers before padding down the hall. He’s totally just here to help, this doesn’t seem like a great excuse to see Mr. Stark again. Not at all.

That’s what he’d say if anyone asked him about it, anyway.

As he gets closer, he’s hit with the smell of alcohol, so strong it makes him gag. When he turns the corner into the living room it becomes clear why: Mr. Stark is kneeling on the ground by the liquor cabinet that sits in the back of the room, gathering shards of a shattered whiskey bottle with his bare hands.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaims, rushing over to kneel next to him.

Mr. Stark looks up, eyes glazed, brows pulling together, disoriented. Disoriented, and drunk. Definitely really drunk, drunk in a way Peter’s not sure he’s ever seen him before.

“Kid? What’re you—” He tries to gesture, closing his hand around the glass. “Ouch!”

“Sir, stop.” Peter grabs his fingers, prying them apart. There’s a deep gash on his palm, blood already bubbling out. Peter plucks the glass away and throws it aside. “Don’t worry about this, I’ll clean it up later.”

“No, you don’t have to, I should—” Mr. Stark’s protests trail off as Peter drags him to his feet. “Wow. You’re strong.” He sags against him, uninjured hand wrapping around Peter’s waist. “I forget how strong you are. It’s very deceptive. You could use that, you know. Not against me, obviously. But in general. Could be useful. We should get someone in to train you. It should’ve been Nat, but…” He sighs, head falling against Peter’s shoulder with a groan. “Fuck. I might be a little drunk here, Pete.”

“No, really?” Peter starts to maneuver him away from the spill, torn between wanting to pull him closer and wanting to put him down as soon as possible, before the flush he can feel running up his spine reaches his face. “You hide it so well.”

“Hey! Who gave you permission to mock me?” But despite his grumbling, Mr. Stark allows Peter to lead him to the large leather couch that sits in the center of the room, dropping onto it in a slump, somewhere between sitting and collapsing forward. He lifts his injured hand, blinking at it. “I’m bleeding.”

“Yep.” In fact, on the walk over he managed to smear the blood across his entire palm, even up to his fingers. He’s that drunk. That must be why he’d been willing to touch Peter just now: he’s too out of it to do anything else. “Is there a first aid kit somewhere?”

“Bottom shelf,” Mr. Stark says, waving vaguely at the liquor cabinet.

“You have a first aid kit in your liquor cabinet?”

Mr. Stark levels him with a look that manages to be sharp even through his buzzed fog. “Don’t judge me.”

“Not judging. It’s very practical.”

Peter grabs the kit and is back in a few bounds. In the brief time it took him to cross the room, Mr. Stark has managed to sink deeper into the couch, looking despondent.

“Okay,” Peter says, taking a seat beside him, making sure to leave enough room that their legs don’t brush, even though he really, really wants to push their thighs together. “Let’s see that hand.”

Mr. Stark looks at his bloody hand, then at Peter, then back to the hand. He reaches for the first aid kit, muttering about doing it himself, but Peter snatches it out of his reach.

“Nuh-uh,” he chides. And then, blushing because he just _chided _Mr. Stark, he quickly adds, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir. Let me do it?”

With a defeated sigh, Mr. Stark extends his hand, silent as Peter works, except for a small gasp of pain when he rubs the wound clean with iodine. The whole thing takes less than a minute, but Peter feels every second of it, head swimming each time their fingers meet. Those fingers, that had run over his body with such reverence, that had been _inside _him. Fuck. The memories are hard to ignore when they’re this close, Mr. Stark’s breath, his smell, the heat off his body inescapable.

By the time Peter’s wrapped the wound in gauze his own hands are shaking and he’s half hard, which is dangerously close to being blatantly obvious through his PJ bottoms. He pulls his hand away.

“Do you—” Oh god, he sounds winded. He clears his throat and tries again. “Do you know where a broom is? I can clean up that bottle.”

Mr. Stark’s hand is still hovering midair, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Or maybe he’s just too drunk to realize that he hasn’t moved it. Finally, he drops it to his knee. “No idea. I don’t clean. I have people for that.”

“Of course you have a first aid kit and not a broom,” Peter says, somewhere between incredulous and affectionate. Which, fuck. He should not sound affectionate. Hopefully Mr. Stark is too drunk to notice.

“I didn’t say I don’t have one. I said I don’t know where it is.” Mr. Stark looks at his hand again, and then up to Peter. His eyes seem darker than before. “Thanks, kid. I’m all safe and sound now. Sorry for being loud. You should go back to bed.”

Oh. Ouch. Even drunk, Mr. Stark is rejecting him, rejecting his presence. Peter almost follows the instruction automatically, but then he realizes he might not have another chance to ask the question that’s been eating at the back of his mind since Mr. Stark hadn’t been there to greet him on the first day. Maybe drunk he’ll actually answer honestly. Not that Peter’s entirely sure he wants to hear the honest answer. But…better to know, right? Maybe he just needs to hear it for sure. Maybe that will help him…whatever. _Move on _doesn’t feel quite right, not when there was never anything here to move on from. Deal. Maybe it will help him deal. Yeah.

He can feel his teeth grit together as he forces the words to the surface. “Mr. Stark, do you not want me here?”

Mr. Stark waves his patched hand. “Honestly, it is a bit embarrassing. Not very role model-y.”

It takes Peter a second to sort through that answer and realize he’d misinterpreted the question. “No, I don’t mean right now. More…in general. Do you not want me _here_, at the tower?”

There’s a long pause. Then Mr. Stark shuffles, the leather of the couch squeaking beneath him as he shifts, trying and mostly failing to sit straighter. His eyes fix on Peter, still not focused, exactly, but a closer attempt than before. He leans forward, and suddenly Peter is too aware of how little space there is between them, even if they aren’t touching. “Why would you think that?”

“Because it kind of feels like you’ve been avoiding me?”

Mr. Stark shakes his head, long exaggerated sway from side to side. “No. Nope. I’m not—”

“Really?” Peter’s voice gets stronger, more insistent. He’s almost positive he’s not making it up. “Because not only have you not been here _at all_, but when you walked into the lab tonight you looked like you wanted to run away.”

“Pete…” Mr. Stark’s protest trails off, caught.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Peter can hear the bitterness in his own voice, but fuck it. He is bitter. He’d been so excited when Mr. Stark answered his call, arranged for him to come here. Had thought they’d have a chance to—what? Not talk about it. But, pick up the pieces. Something. And instead, he feels abandoned. So, sure, he’s bitter. “It’s fine. I can go home.”

“No, you can’t.” Mr. Stark’s voice is rough and urgent, and then he does something Peter’s not expecting: he touches him, reaching out to grab his wrist. Just that, but it’s enough to make him freeze, all senses contracting to that single point of contact. Even sound drops away, the world muffled to nothing but those fingers on his skin until Mr. Stark adds, quietly, “It’s not safe.”

Peter could cry. He wants to wrench his hand back, or maybe throw himself into Mr. Stark’s arms: more or less than this, one way or the other.

“Is that the only reason?” he asks, equally quiet. “Do you just want me here because of Mr. Beck? Because that doesn’t exactly contradict my theory that you’ve been avoiding me.” That’s met with silence, Mr. Stark’s half-focused gaze still fixed firmly on his face. “I can stay somewhere else in the tower if you want. You shouldn’t have to hide; you can have this back.” He waves around the room. “I’ll…I’ll get out of your hair.”

And yeah, okay, it’s really obvious that he’s upset. His voice is shaking; he’s managing to blink back the tears, but the blinking has to be noticeable. He feels small and pathetic and—

And Mr. Stark releases his wrist, only to raise his hand and brush his fingers, barely, just barely, across his cheek. Peter’s thoughts stutter to a stop.

What.

_What_.

He gapes, mouth trying to form words, but Mr. Stark beats him to the punch. “Peter, no. I want you here. _Here_. Close.”

_Peter_.

He never calls him that.

(The last time he called him that it was with his dick slamming into him, his fingers digging into his hips, voice raw as he gasped, _Fuck, Peter, you’re perfect_, so desperate Peter had almost believed him.)

He’s saying something else, Peter realizes. He missed it. “What?”

Mr. Stark’s face has become impossibly soft, affectionate, for the first time since—

(Since soft eyes as they kissed, adoring gaze making Peter feel protected, even with the knowledge of a gun pointed in their direction.)

And he missed whatever he’s saying again. “Sorry. I—can you repeat that?”

“See?” Mr. Stark says. His hand is still hovering, inches away from Peter’s cheek. “This is what I was worried about.”

Peter tries to make sense of that but he really can’t. “What is?”

“You’re panicking,” Mr. Stark says. As if that clears anything up. “I’m just trying to give you space.”

“I don’t want space.” Before he can think about it, Peter brings his hand to Mr. Stark’s, moving it back to his cheek, pressing it close, greedy for the warmth of it. He shuts his eyes. God, he loves the feeling of that hand on his face, his skin, everywhere. Loves the memory of it. He shouldn’t, but right now, feeling it again, he can only remember the good parts. “I don’t want space. I want things to go back to normal.”

He hears a heavy sigh, more creaking leather, and suddenly their thighs are touching. His stomach swoops and he lets out a light gasp: tiny, but unmistakable. Mr. Stark’s fingers flex on his cheek, his breath hot across his face, stinging with alcohol. “Yeah, but this isn’t normal either, kid.”

Peter opens his eyes to find his vision full of Mr. Stark: eyebrows scrunched down, lips parted, eyelids heavy and rimmed red. He looks—confused. Yeah, confused, looking at Peter like he’s a mystery, something important and maybe even frightening.

And they’re so close. All Peter would need to do is lean forward and then—

No. He can’t. Mr. Stark is drunk. Drop-a-bottle, can’t-fix-himself-up drunk. Peter has no idea if he even really knows what he’s doing. Or if any of this is real. Maybe he doesn’t mean it, maybe he’s just lonely, maybe it’s the alcohol talking.

“Mr. Stark—”

“You should want space, Pete.” Mr. Stark’s voice has gone low. Really low. Suddenly, with a shake of his head, he pulls back, pushing Peter away. “You should really want space from me. Go to bed.”

This time it comes out like an order. Head spinning, afraid he’ll do something really stupid if he stays any longer, Peter obeys.

\---

When he wakes up, Mr. Stark has already taken off for a meeting. But at least this time he’s left a note. _Out for the day_, it says, in neat handwriting. _I’ll be back late, don’t wait up._

Yeah, of course he is. But Peter’s frustration is cut short by the P.S.: _I found the broom. Swept up myself. Be proud!_

He has no idea what’s going on, but he’s starting to think he’s not the only one, and that P.S. makes it feel a little like they’re in this together.

\---

He’s stretched out on the couch, working on a new batch of assignments from his English teacher, trying not to think about Mr. Stark’s body warm against his, when he hears the buzz of the floor’s private door. He sits up, confused—Happy’s already been by, maybe he forgot something?—and is greeted by the sight of Mr. Stark, who stops in his tracks, looking as surprised as Peter feels. But only for a moment, before his face breaks into a wide smile.

“Hi, kid, fancy finding you here.”

“Uh…yeah,” Peter scrambles to his feet, and then immediately wonders why. What’s he expecting, a hug? As if. “Not a lot of places to go.”

“Right…no, of course not. Of course you’re here.”

Well, yeah, duh Peter is here. Maybe Mr. Stark is hungover?

“What’re _you_ doing here, Mr. Stark? I mean, not that it’s a problem, obviously, it’s your floor, you can be here whenever you want. I just mean—I thought you were in meetings all day?”

Mr. Stark stares at him, eyes narrowing, as if he’s deciding something. Peter normally likes it when Mr. Stark looks at him, but something about this gaze makes his hairs stand on end, like maybe whatever he’s thinking could be bad for Peter. Maybe he’s reconsidering not kicking him out after all. Peter instinctively crosses his arms, hunching his shoulders as he awaits the verdict. 

But when Mr. Stark’s expression changes from questioning to determined, he doesn’t tell Peter to leave. Instead, he crosses the distance between them, grabs Peter by the back of the neck, and pulls him into a fierce, rough kiss.

Mr. Stark _kisses him_. Him. Peter.

His entire mind goes blank for—for a while. For long enough that when he catches up to what’s happening, his hands are around Mr. Stark’s back, clinging as they kiss, lips open, tongues flicking.

“Wh—what?” he squeaks.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” Mr. Stark’s grip on the back of his neck is tight, tight enough that it almost hurts. “Can’t get you out of my head. The way you looked—” He leers, and then kisses Peter again, this time with teeth, nipping at his bottom lip.

_Fuck_, that feels good. No drugs this time, but Peter is already weak. He leans into Mr. Stark’s arms, face dropping to his neck. He smells different, a little sour. Maybe changed his body wash. Not that Peter’s complaining. Not when they’re finally kissing like Mr. Stark means it.

Like he _really _means it.

Maybe the charge Peter felt between them last night—the suspended tension, the _possibility_—hadn’t just been the alcohol talking.

_Wow_.

“I thought you were avoiding me,” Peter admits softly, pulling back to look Mr. Stark in the eyes. “I thought you hated me?”

For a second Mr. Stark looks puzzled, but then he smiles again, hungry. “Maybe I was,” he admits. “But not because I hate you, Peter. I wasn’t brave enough to take what I wanted.”

Wait. Does that make Peter the thing he wants?

It does. Obviously.

Peter shivers.

“You?” he whispers. “Not brave? That doesn’t sound right.”

Mr. Stark chuckles. “It’s more likely than you think.”

And then they’re kissing again, and Peter’s protests disappear into needy moans. It doesn’t matter why Mr. Stark was acting strange before; it doesn’t matter why he changed his mind overnight. What matters is this: his beard, rougher than Peter remembers, rubbing against his cheek; his hands slipping under his shirt; his teeth, biting claiming marks into his neck.

“This might be more comfortable in a bedroom, no?” Mr. Stark murmurs against his ear. 

Peter, hard and dripping, muscles tense with lust, nods. Yeah, bedroom. That sounds like a fantastic idea. “Please.”

“Yours? Lead the way, kiddo.”

Peter does, too focused on Mr. Stark’s fingers pinching his ass and toying with his nipples as they walk to wonder why _his_ bedroom. Why he needs to lead. Doesn’t matter, as long as Mr. Stark keeps touching him.

\---

Mr. Stark throws him onto the bed as soon as they get in the room, then stares down at him. The hunger Peter saw in his eyes before has multiplied to starvation. There’s something dangerous in the sharpness of his gaze, in the twist of his lips as he trails his eyes across Peter’s body. Peter shudders and bucks, senses tripping over themselves to make sense of how he feels: hot and anxious and wanting.

Mr. Stark laughs. Again. It doesn’t sound right, laugh as sharp as his gaze. Where’s the warmth?

“Oh, Peter, you really are so needy.” He leans forward, grabs Peter’s dick through his jeans and squeezes. Peter yelps, thrusting off the bed, surprised pleasure overriding everything else. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

Peter nods, embarrassed blush heating up his neck and cheeks.

“Adorable.” Why does it feel like it’s said with a sneer? That can’t be right. Mr. Stark’s hands are on Peter’s jeans, pulling them down. “Take off that shirt. I want to see you again.”

Stunned, Peter obeys, struggling and flailing to get the shirt over his head at the same time Mr. Stark tugs his jeans off in a swift motion. This is a lot all at once, from zero to nearly naked, but before he can protest, Mr. Stark is palming him through his boxers, murmuring, “Good boy.”

“Oh my god,” Peter gasps, rutting into the touch, barely able to think. “_Mr. Stark_.”

“This is all it takes, right?” Mr. Stark shoves two fingers into Peter’s open mouth, and without needing instructions he begins to suck, reveling in the unfamiliar taste of skin on his tongue, swirling around each finger in turn. Mr. Stark’s other hand continues to rub, driving Peter crazy, pushing him toward the edge. “A few kisses, a hand on your dick, and you’re ready to come. Isn’t that right, Peter?”

Peter nods, whining, undignified but he doesn’t care because _holy shit_, this is every fantasy he’s ever had.

“Well go ahead then.” Mr. Stark squeezes hard. “Come for me, you pretty little whore.”

Peter’s orgasm hits him which such force he arches off the bed. But even as pleasure shakes through his body and come paints his chest, his mind snags on that word: _whore_. That doesn’t seem right, that’s too cruel, that’s not what he thought Mr. Stark would be like at all, that’s like—

That’s like Mr. Beck.

Just as it falls into place—B.A.R.F. and Beck and Mr. Stark’s worry, the impossible made plausible—something strong and metal grabs his hands, yanking them over his head. The same at his ankles, spreading his legs. 

He snaps his eyes to the figure above him. He still looks like Mr. Stark, but the smile he’s wearing is so much crueler than anything that has ever been on his mentor’s face.

“Caught on, have you? That’s what I like about you, Peter. You’re smart. Quick on the uptake.” He grabs the edge of Peter’s boxers. “If you weren’t so loyal to the wrong guy, we could’ve used you on the team. As it is…”

He shrugs, and pulls the boxers down.

No. _No_. Peter shouts and jerks at the restraints, not holding back his strength, but they don’t break.

“You think we didn’t come up with a way to deal with Tony’s little super-slut?” He still sounds like Mr. Stark, too, but chilling: the voice Peter loves, the one that always makes him feel safe, turned into a weapon. “I didn’t spend two months working at that _fucking _school _not _to learn how to take you down. Granted, I didn’t think I was going to be using them quite like this but—” That laugh again. How had Peter thought, even for a second, that laugh belonged to Mr. Stark? “Who am I to pass up an opportunity when it presents itself?”

Mr. Beck runs a finger down Peter’s stomach, making a line through the sticky fluid rapidly drying there. Then, with a wink, he goes lower, brushing Peter’s hole. Peter jerks again, nausea and overstimulation and fear roiling through him. “Mr. Beck, _please_—”

“I was only here to pick up a very expensive pair of sunglasses,” Mr. Beck explains, finger pressing, prodding, fighting against Peter’s body, his other hand coming to stroke Peter’s dick. It’s the overstimulation that does it, distracting him from staying clenched long enough for Mr. Beck to get his finger in. “This is just a fun bonus.”

Peter shouts and struggles as Mr. Beck shoves another finger after the first, rough and painful, hand tightening around his cock. To his horror, he can feel it start to fill again, the sensations, the image of Mr. Stark baring down on him overriding his willpower.

Mr. Beck grins, and it’s the worst thing Peter has ever seen. “See? You want this. Slut.”

“I _don’t_,” Peter insists, as Mr. Beck wrings a spurt of precome out of him. “Help!” he shouts, to prove it, body be damned. “_Help_, I’m in here!”

But Mr. Beck just laughs and laughs. “Really, Peter, would I be wasting my time with you if there was any chance of someone coming?” He removes his fingers, wiping them on his jeans before unbuckling his belt. “Scream all you want; it isn’t going to help.”

\---

In the end Mr. Beck is right: screaming doesn’t help. It gives way to moaning and panting and hating himself as Mr. Beck forces a second orgasm out of him, and then a third, slamming against his prostate until he gives up on fighting and just lets it happen, going limp, swallowing fear, trying to remember when it was actually Mr. Stark inside him: the kindness in his eyes, the gentleness of his touch.

He won’t let this monster steal that memory.

\---

When it’s over, Mr. Beck leaves him there, exhausted and dripping with come and sweat.

“Tell Tony I say hi,” he sneers, and it’s in his own voice. Peter shuts his eyes, not wanting to see if he’s turned back to himself. “Tell him this is what his arrogance gets him.”

\---

Peter’s not sure how long he lies there, memory and dreams weaving into each other, mind not able to sort one from the other. Sometimes, he comes back to consciousness painfully hard. (_You pretty little whore._) Other times, he can taste salt from tears. (_I can’t stop thinking about you_.) It’s long enough that the come dripping from his ass dries in itchy streaks across his balls and down his thighs. (_You want this. Slut._) His muscles ache, arms stretched, legs jerking uselessly against restraints.

Occasionally, when a burst of angry energy rips through him, he tries to call for help, but his voice is too weak to travel, hoarse from crying and yelling when there was no point.

He tells himself it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Mr. Stark will come.

\---

Mr. Stark does come, eventually, bursting into the room with a shout, freeing Peter from his restraints with Iron Man’s blasters, pulling his naked body into his arms, a litany of distress falling from his lips: “Oh, no. Oh no, Peter, oh fuck, I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Peter, foggy and weak, wants to cling to him, desperate for the warmth, the strength of his body. But his mind screams, cringes, makes him thrash and whimper until, instinctively, he thrusts his nose into the curve between his shoulder and neck and inhales. That’s him, his senses tell him. Really Mr. Stark. His cologne, and more, under that, the scent that is _him_, the one that had been missing. His entire body relaxes, melting, shaking, not able to take in what Mr. Stark is saying. He just breathes and breathes and breathes.

He’s safe now. He’s safe.

\---

He can’t stay like that forever. Can’t even really stay like that for very long. Soon Mr. Stark pushes him up, hand smoothing his hair away from his forehead, eyes running over his face, searching, maybe trying to tell if he’s drugged. This is by far the most he’s touched him since—since. Peter’s naked this time, too. The thought makes him feel wild. He laughs, a manic sound, and Mr. Stark draws back in surprise.

“Pete, are you okay? No, wait, that’s a stupid question, of course you’re not.” He reaches behind Peter, grabbing a blanket from the bed, pulling it around his shoulders in a comforting, protective gesture. Then his hand is back on his face, just holding it. “I’m so, so sorry kid. He blocked all footage. He blocked everything. But as soon as we got access, and I saw you—” The muscle in his jaw is bulging so much it seems like it might explode. “I’ll find him, Pete. I’ll find him and I’ll kill him.”

Peter nods. He fingers the edge of the blanket, and then tugs it tighter around him. “He said he was here for something else,” he says, and is surprised to hear how calm he sounds. “Something about sunglasses? Which doesn’t really make sense, but that’s what he said. I was just…a bonus, I guess. Did he get whatever it is?”

Mr. Stark’s hand moves, stroking at Peter’s hair again, trying to arrange it, as if that matters. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“So that’s a yes.” Peter’s not sure why he’s focusing on this, other than it’s something concrete. Concrete, and outside himself. “That’s bad, right? Like, really bad? He didn’t break into Avengers tower for nothing, right?”

The hand drops away, falling to Peter’s knee, which pokes out from the blanket. Mr. Stark’s fingers start absentmindedly stroking the skin there; Peter’s body responds in ways he can’t deal with right now, sparks of pleasure coiling in on themselves, disgusted.

Mr. Stark is saying something about how yes, it’s not good. Peter doesn’t really follow, only half processing, too absorbed in the feel of Mr. Stark’s hand to get much more than the gist of the thing: very bad, potential disaster, they’re all moving to a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house, ASAP. Then suddenly there’s silence, and he realizes Mr. Stark must’ve asked him a question. He has no idea what.

He searches for something to say, and the first thing that comes out is: “It’s pretty fucked up that this is what it took for you to start touching me again.”

It’s like a ton of bricks dropped in their lap. Mr. Stark’s hand freezes in place; his eyes flit down to it and then back again, shocked, as if he hadn’t realized what he was doing.

“Sorry,” Peter says quickly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did,” Mr. Stark pulls his hand away and Peter whines. Fuck. He actually _whines_, pathetic and needy and he hates himself. Mr. Stark makes an expression like Peter just reached into his chest and ripped his heart out. “I’m the one who should be sorry, Pete.”

Peter waits, expectant, for that thought to turn into something else: an explanation, a touch, _something_. Instead, it lingers in the air, as heavy as Peter’s accusation, leaving the space between them thick and tense. Then Mr. Stark sits back, rubbing his eyes.

“I can’t do this right now,” he says. He sounds exhausted. “I literally can’t. I’ve already been in here longer than I should, I need to get back to trying to find Beck.”

_Are you fucking kidding me? _is what Peter wants to say, but all he gets out is a quiet, “Oh.”

Mr. Stark gives him an apologetic smile: _What can I do?_ It’s an expression Peter normally finds charmingly irreverent, but today he wants to answer it: _More._ _You can do more_. He could hold him, kiss him, promise him all those pretty lies Beck told were true. Because that might be the worst part, worse than the pain or the humiliation: having those moments, the ones before he realized, pure hope, chiseled into his memory, false and mocking.

The silence is awkward. Mr. Stark pats his knee and slips off the bed. “You, take a shower, get cleaned up. Then I need you to pack, because we’re getting you to that safe house as soon as possible.”

“Oh,” Peter says dully. “Okay.”

Mr. Stark looks at him, and Peter almost melts when he sees the softness around his eyes is back, unfair and confusing and still so fucking good he wants to drown in it. He reaches out, cupping Peter’s chin, fingers like a brand, burning as they spread.

“The tech Beck stole is going to make it even easier for him to use his illusions,” Mr. Stark says. “We should come up with a passcode. To check that it’s really each other, just in case.”

Peter almost replies that he can tell by smell, but even stunned and battered and not quite thinking straight he knows that would be off-putting. Besides, it wouldn’t help if Mr. Stark is in the suit or something. “Okay. Like what?”

To his utter surprise, Mr. Stark smiles, just a little. “I was thinking the code question is: ‘What’s your favorite really old movie?’”

Peter feels his lips curving to match Mr. Stark’s grin. “What’s the answer?”

“_Aliens_.”

Their eyes meet, and Peter is a million years ago, before he died, before the world was turned upside down, before all of it, standing on a spaceship hurtling into the unknown, Mr. Stark telling him, “I’m still mad you’re here, but that’s a really good plan.”

He’s not sure what it means, Mr. Stark choosing that movie, with his fingers curling around Peter’s chin, his eyes going softer and softer, but it feels like something. A promise, maybe. A promise that despite everything, he hasn’t forgotten what they’ve been through. What they’ve already sacrificed. That they’ll make it through this, too, even though it doesn’t seem like it now.

Or maybe not. Maybe Peter is making it up, looking for something that isn’t there. He swallows and nods. “What’s your favorite really old movie. Answer: _Aliens_,” he repeats. “Got it.”

“Good. Be ready to go in an hour.”

Mr. Stark starts to pull away; as soon as the warmth of him disappears panic spikes through Peter. He can’t. Shower? Pack? Move? _Now_? He_ can’t_. He grabs Mr. Stark’s hand before he’s out of reach. “Please, don’t leave, sir. Please don’t leave me alone?”

“Pete…” Mr. Stark closes his eyes, lips moving silently, as if thinking something through, or maybe counting to himself. Is he trying to stay in control? That doesn’t seem right. “There are two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents outside your door, you’re completely safe.”

“That’s not…I wasn’t worried about being safe.” Peter sounds dejected even to himself. He drops Mr. Stark’s hand. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I know it’s not.” Mr. Stark sighs, deep. And then he does something Peter couldn’t possibly have prepared for: he stoops forward and plants a kiss, quick and light, on his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish—I’m just really sorry about all of it.”

And then he’s gone. Peter flops back onto the bed, too overwhelmed to move.

\---

Eventually he drags himself to the shower, where he finally lets himself sob, and sob, and sob, until his stomach aches from it.

Then he gets out and packs, because the time for feeling sorry for himself is over. He has bigger things to worry about than what happened to him, or the crumbling shamble his relationship with Mr. Stark has become. After all, they have a madman to catch.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s Happy, not Mr. Stark, who’s there to escort Peter to the safe house. This time, he’s not surprised; he hadn’t gotten his hopes up, so he can’t be disappointed.

Yeah, he’s not disappointed. _He’s not disappointed_.

If he tells himself enough times, it might become true.

“You okay, kid?” Happy asks from the front seat, concerned eyes peering at Peter through the rear-view mirror. Catching his own reflection, Peter can’t blame him for being worried. He’s a mess, hair barely combed, eyes still red from crying. There’s a faint outline of a scratch on his cheek where Mr. Beck had grabbed him at one point, and something hollow in his gaze. Or maybe haunted.

No, that’s romanticizing it. Mostly just tired, if he’s being honest. Really, really tired.

“Has anyone told May?” he asks, instead of answering. He doesn’t feel like lying, but he’s also not about to tell Happy that no, he’s not okay. That he feels like he’s had his insides pulled out, twisted up, and shoved back in wrong, nauseous and sad and disgusted and, despite his shower, not quite clean.

Happy shakes his head. “Total information lockdown. Don’t worry, we’ve got a team surveilling your apartment. We’ll make sure nothing happens to her. I personally guarantee it.”

Before all of this, just a few weeks ago, Peter had started to have suspicions about Happy’s feelings for his aunt. He remembers the giggled speculations with Ned, wanting and not wanting it to be true at the same time—so _weird_, but wouldn’t it be nice for her? It feels like another world. Now, the only emotion he can bring himself to feel is vague gratitude that someone will be looking out for her, and that no one has told her. He doesn’t want her to worry. He _really _doesn’t want her to know, any of it.

“Okay. That’s good.” He sounds flat, dull; of course Happy shoots him another concerned glance.

“Peter, listen,” he says awkwardly after the silence stretches for over a minute, “if you need someone to talk to…”

“I don’t.” Peter wonders how much he knows. Mr. Stark said he’d seen Peter on the security footage. Happy could have seen it too. “I really, really don’t.”

“Okay. Well, if you change your mind.” But Happy sounds relieved. Peter doesn’t blame him for that, either. It would be an incredibly awkward conversation. “We’re taking you someplace safe now. And we’re going to catch Beck. Trust me, Tony isn’t going to rest until we do. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so angry.”

Peter looks into his hands. Yeah, sure. Mr. Stark can get angry on his behalf, but he can’t actually stay in the same room as him. He can’t hold him, barely touches him, definitely can’t give him what Peter wants—

Of course he can’t. Because Peter is just a kid, a kid who he was forced to do things with. Probably a kid who is starting to seem like a lot of trouble to keep around.

“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” he forces himself to say. He doesn’t sound like he believes it.

“He’s worried about you.” Happy insists. “I’ve known Tony for a long time. He’s not very good at expressing…anything, really, but you’re important to him, Peter. You might be the most important person left in his life.” Peter snaps his head up to see Happy’s eyes shining back at him through the mirror, wide and honest. “He’ll turn the world upside down to make this right.”

Peter can feel his lip tremble; his palms are sweaty, mouth dry. He wants that to be true so bad. _So bad_. He nods, afraid that if he speaks it will give him away.

“As long as you understand that,” Happy concludes, eyes returning to the road. “You mean the world to him, kid. Don’t forget it.”

\---

The safe house isn’t a house, it’s an underground bunker, which they reach through a series of tunnels. Peter tries to keep track, mentally matching their turns to his internal map of the city above, but after ten minutes of driving through the dark underground he loses track. By the time they stop, he’s not even sure if they’re still in Manhattan.

He’s escorted to his room by a stiff, unemotional S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who introduces herself as Maria Hill and informs him there will be a guard planted at his door at all times.

“Am I allowed to leave my room?” he asks.

For the briefest moment, her face shows something other than calm professionalism, though he can’t quite tell what’s there instead. Concern, or maybe pity. “We’re not keeping you prisoner, Parker. You’re free to look around, but there’s not much else to do.”

“Oh, okay.” He licks his lips, almost wanting to resist asking, but he can’t help himself. “And Mr. Stark, will he…?”

“He’s at a different location. Its safest to keep potential targets separated.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” It makes so much sense. Mr. Stark probably loves it; he won’t have to see Peter at all. Maybe it was his idea. “Great. I guess I’ll just sit here by myself.”

“We’ve provided books, schoolwork, and an encrypted StarkPad which can be used for secured communications to pre-approved numbers,” Agent Hill offers. That little bit of something like pity returning to her face, she adds, “We’ll catch him soon, Peter. This won’t be for long.”

Yeah, sure, not for long.

It’s starting to feel like it would’ve been better to stick it out in school in the first place.

\---

The StarkPad has three contacts already loaded in. One is FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY, in all caps, which Peter figures must be someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. or something. The second is Happy.

The third is Tony Stark.

He stares at it for a long time before putting the pad aside without sending a message. He has no idea what he would say.

\---

S.H.I.E.L.D. provides sleeping pills, the kind he used to take in those first few months after the Blip, that put him so far under nothing gets through, not even his own subconscious. He thought he was beyond that, but he swallows them gratefully. He has no desire to know what he’ll dream tonight.

\---

The next morning, he wakes up to a message from Mr. Stark: _You okay, kid? Kind of expected to hear from you last night_.

_I kind of expected you to be here_, Peter types back, but then he quickly deletes it. That’s not fair. Maybe they really are being kept separately for safety.

_I’m fine_, he sends.

He waits a few minutes, but there’s no response. Mr. Stark is probably already busy, hunting Mr. Beck, or just ignoring Peter.

\---

He tries to do some of the schoolwork they’ve provided, but his mind keeps going sideways, images that make him gag popping up and blurring the pages. After a few hours he gives up and explores the safe house instead. “Explores”—big word for a small space. He might not be a prisoner, exactly, but Agent Hill’s promise that he can look around was a bit overstated. He’s only allowed to go the length of a single, windowless hall, and there’s nothing there but a couple of empty rooms and a kitchenette stocked with canned goods.

In the end, he curls up with the StarkPad, watching _Star Wars_ and doing his best not to think at all.

\---

He tries only taking half a sleeping pill that night, and wakes up screaming, face streaked with tears and sheets stained with come.

\---

_I lied, I’m not fine_, he types into the StarkPad the next morning, but then he deletes it. Mr. Stark doesn’t want to be bothered by that. Burdened by that.

Instead, he writes: _I’m bored. _Same idea, less baggage.

A few minutes later Mr. Stark sends a message with a huge file attached. _The blueprint for your newest upgrade_. _Play around with it. Make some changes. You’re the one who wears it, you should get a say._

Peter stares at the message, then opens the files. Full schematics. Wow. He’s been asking to dig into a redesign for months, had been told over and over that while Mr. Stark was happy for his input, he wasn’t ready to turn it all over, not yet.

“I’d rather talk to you,” Peter tells the pad. These blueprints might be the coolest thing he’s ever seen. A few weeks ago, he would’ve said there was nothing he wanted more. Now, he’d trade them back just to have Mr. Stark’s arms around him again. No question.

But he doesn’t have that option. He _does _have these files. Which _are _cool. He should stop feeling sorry for himself.

With a sigh, he pulls up one of the designs and gets to work.

\---

He works all day, into the night, until he falls asleep with images of spider-suits in his head. It’s better than Mr. Beck.

\---

The next morning, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent shakes him awake, tells him to get dressed and ready to leave. They’ve found Beck, and they’re having a briefing about it. At the other safe house. Mr. Stark will be there.

Peter has never gotten dressed so quickly.

\---

It’s a relief just to be out of those cramped quarters, someplace new. This building is as sunless as the other one, but at least the paint is a different shade of off-white, the carpeting a dull blue instead of dull grey. It’s the little things, variety.

(Yes, he might be going a bit crazy. He acknowledges that.)

This one is bigger, too. Agent Hill leads him past hall after hall, other agents flitting in and out of rooms, shooting him curious looks. He smiles politely at them, resists the urge to jump into their space, grab their shoulders, demand they talk to him just so he can hear someone else’s voice.

(Okay, definitely going a bit crazy. Can you blame him?)

Their destination is a large conference room, disorienting in its normalcy. Not that Peter has spent a lot of time in conference rooms, but he expected secret S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings to take place someplace covert, maybe covered in high tech computer screens, not a dull room with a large oval table that looks like it was stolen from the set of _The Office_. Agent Hill maneuvers him in and tells him to sit in a small, hard chair in the back. He takes the seat, curling his knees up to rest his chin on them, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up. He knows it’s not professional, but they literally didn’t even give him a seat at the table, so fuck it.

He waits silently, ignored by the few harsh-faced agents milling around, until the door opens again and Mr. Stark bursts in, flanked by several more agents and Nick freaking Fury. His gaze goes to Peter immediately, but only for the shortest moment, just long enough for their eyes to meet. Then he sweeps over to his chair—_he _gets to be at the table, of course—and loudly, confidently tells Fury to get started.

Peter doesn’t have time to stew in this latest slight before the meeting kicks off, Fury explaining Beck and co. haven’t gone far. They’re camped out in an empty factory in Jersey, but whatever security they have going on is making it impossible for S.H.I.E.L.D. to see in.

“The short version is Quentin Beck has become a highest priority threat overnight, because _someone _decided an unauthorized, worldwide drone program was an excellent idea, and then left it unsecured.” Fury levels Mr. Stark with an accusatory look.

“It was _not _unsecured!” Mr. Stark defends, affronted. “It was very secure.”

“I’m sorry, are my facts wrong, or did a madman get access and shut you out so thoroughly you can’t regain control remotely?”

Mr. Stark frowns, crossing his arms petulantly, but he doesn’t reply.

“It was unsecured.” Fury turns back to the room. “For those of you who are not up to speed on Tony’s most recent colossal act of idiocy, here’s what we’re dealing with.”

Peter manages to focus, only occasionally glancing over to Mr. Stark—not like he’s ever looking back, anyway—as Fury explains the basics of the E.D.I.T.H. program, S.H.I.E.L.D’s best guess about how it will interact with the B.A.R.F. tech—“the technical term for it is ‘mindfuck’”—and their plan, which is to draw Mr. Beck out by attacking the facility.

“We don’t know exactly what they have to throw at us, but the longer we take trying to figure it out, the longer they have to plan,” he concludes. “So we hit them before they hit us, or someone else. Go time is tomorrow. Agent Hill will go over the plan.”

Agent Hill rises, explains tactics, roles, contingency plans. None of which involve Peter.

“Excuse me?” he says, raising his hand. “Uh, sorry to interrupt, but what am I supposed to do?”

Before Agent Hill can answer, Mr. Stark swivels in his chair, looking at Peter for the first time since he walked in the room.

“You go back to the safe house and wait,” he says firmly. “You’re only here because I thought you deserved to know what’s going on.”

“But—”

“Don’t start, Parker.” It’s a bark, harsh, a tone he hasn’t taken with Peter since—since after the ferry, probably. “Just don’t.”

Peter crosses his arms, slumping angrily, but doesn’t push it.

\---

At least, he doesn’t push it in the meeting. But as soon as it breaks and Mr. Stark pointedly breezes out of the room without looking at him, he leaps to his feet and chases after him.

“Mr. Stark!” he shouts. “Mr. Stark, stop! I need to talk to you!”

“No, what you _need _to do is go back to where you’re safe,” Mr. Stark snaps, spinning to glare at him. “Don’t test me on this, kid.”

Peter meets him glare for glare. “Not until you talk to me. Sir.”

He can practically see Mr. Stark trying to decide if this is a fight he can win, left hand flexing anxiously. “Fine,” he finally agrees, inclining his head at a nearby door. “Come on. You”—he points at his security—“wait right outside. If I murder him, let me, he probably deserves it.”

Peter follows him into what turns out to be another conference room, smaller and just as sterile. With the door closed and the armed guards out of sight, they could be in any random office building.

“Okay, talk.” Some of the anger has drained out of Mr. Stark’s voice now that he’s not in front of other people, but he still leaves several feet between them, leaning casually on the table, arms crossed.

“I want to fight.” Might as well cut to the point, right? He’s not sure how long Mr. Stark is going to give him. “I mean, come on, Mr. Stark, I literally just designed a new suit and everything.”

“That was to keep you occupied, not set you up to join a dangerous fight we’re going into blind. No way, Pete.”

“Oh yeah, because I’ve never gone into a fight blind before.” It’s honestly kind of an insulting excuse. “Mr. Beck is just some guy. I’ve faced worse. _We’ve _faced worse.”

Mr. Stark’s face goes dark at the reminder. “I seem to recall that didn’t work out very well,” he says with barely controlled emotion. “I’m not eager for a repeat. What happened to being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man? I thought you wanted to stay on the ground?”

As if he doesn’t know. As if he’s not one hundred percent aware of why Peter wants to be part of this fight.

“Jersey isn’t very far from Queens. And besides, this is kind of personal.”

Mr. Stark takes several long seconds to respond, rubbing restlessly at his wrist. “That makes it worse. You might act irrationally.”

“And you’re going to be totally rational?” It comes out dripping with sarcasm, all of Peter’s frustration at Mr. Stark’s ping-ponging signals boiling over into the single sentence. Fuck, this isn’t what he started this conversation for, but he can’t stop himself from adding, “Yeah, that makes sense, I mean, you’ve handled this super well so far.”

And, yeah, he’s totally pushed too far. Mr. Stark’s nostrils flare, his jaw works, he makes several aborted attempts to speak before finally replying with a trembling voice, “Maybe not, but that’s my call to make.”

“And I can’t make my own call? Come on, Mr. Stark, I’m not some kid anymore and you know it.” He _really _knows it. Up close and personal, even if he won’t acknowledge it. “I’ve been to space. And I can be helpful! I know what his illusion tech is like. And with my, you know, my extra sense, I think I might be able to see through it? Well, not _see _see, but sense what’s real and what’s not. That could be really, really helpful.”

Mr. Stark looks away, glancing at the empty space above Peter’s head. “I hate to point out the obvious, but you didn’t seem to pick up on the difference last time.”

Oh. Ouch.

Peter is so busy being stunned that it takes him a few moments to play out the implication of the words. If Mr. Stark knows Mr. Beck used the B.A.R.F. tech—then—

Then that means he knows _how _he used the B.A.R.F. tech. Who he looked like. How eager Peter had been to accept the lie, because he wanted it to be true so badly.

“That was recorded? You saw?”

Mr. Stark nods, still not meeting his eyes. It looks like it physically pains him to explain, “Once we got the security back online, the footage was there. I had to know what happened. To—to know what we were up against.”

Right. _Right_. A completely irresponsible part of Peter wants to know what Mr. Stark thought. If any part of him had been drawn to what he saw. If even a little slice of his heart also wants…Hadn’t it felt like it, that night, when he was drunk? But no, of course not. Mr. Stark has made that completely clear.

Peter closes his eyes. It’s already out there. Might as well use it. “If you watched the video, then you know why I was, um, too distracted to notice what my senses were telling me.”

When he opens his eyes again, Mr. Stark is staring at his feet. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Kid…”

“I’m not asking you to say anything about that,” Peter clarifies quickly. “We can just…forget it. I just mean, I won’t be distracted like that in the field. It was stupid, I should’ve known better. He couldn’t trick me like that twice anyway, but definitely not in a fight. So…I’ll be useful. That’s all. Only reason I brought it up.”

Mr. Stark finally looks at him again. “Maybe you would be,” he concedes, and his voice is gentler. “But Pete, if something happened to you…” He shrugs, and for a second he has an expression that reminds Peter of how he’d looked at the start, back in that hotel room: horrified, defeated, devastated. “I can’t put you at risk like that.”

“But I’m already at risk! Mr. Beck knows who I am, and he knows about my powers. If something goes wrong out there, he’s coming after me next. So if we have a better chance with me out there then you have to let me. And we _do_, you know we do.” Then, struck with a thought that is half true, and maybe entirely effective, he adds, “And it would make me feel better. After what he did, I’d like to be part of the fight. You know, regain some of my agency?”

Mr. Stark narrows his eyes. “Is that actually how you feel, or are you saying it because it’s compelling bullshit?”

Damn, called out. Peter wiggles his hand. “Fifty-fifty?”

That gets a laugh out of Mr. Stark. Not much of one, half scoff, but it’s the first laugh Peter has heard from him in a long time. It hits him somewhere behind the ribs. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that sound. “Points for honesty.”

“So? Can I?”

Mr. Stark levels him with a knowing look. His gaze is like fingers whispering across Peter’s skin; he feels himself heat up. There are a lot of images those eyes call to mind these days, and he shouldn’t be thinking about any of them right now.

“If I say no, are you going to try to break out of your safe house to come after us?”

“I was thinking it made more sense to jump out of the car on the way back, actually,” Peter admits. “There’s this one moment where we go above ground. I mean, it’s on a bridge, but—” He pulls up his sleeves, revealing the slingers he hasn’t taken off since leaving Avengers tower. He adds a small smile. If Mr. Stark is asking the question, he’s won.

“You’re impossible.” If Peter is not entirely crazy—which he might be—it’s said with fondness. “Fine, you’re in. Fury is already pissed at me, I don’t need him adding you causing a scene to the list of my offenses. But you only get involved if _absolutely _necessary, got it?”

“Got it,” Peter agrees, doing his best to hide his excitement. “I’ll be very responsible, sir. Thank you.”

Mr. Stark rolls his eyes. “Oh, _now _you’re polite,” he grumbles, brushing past to the door. Not quite touching, _still_. “I’ll go tell Fury. If that new suit is ready, we can send the specs to a machine in my safe house. You’ll need to come back with us for a full briefing.”

\---

The rest of the day is spent in a flurry of preparation. More in-depth plans. Drilling on S.H.I.E.L.D. security protocols and call signs. Trying out the new suit.

Mr. Stark is there for most of it. Acting normal, almost: acknowledging Peter, sometimes even speaking to him directly, but always with formality. All signs of anger are gone, but so is any affection. It’s like he’s decided to box away whatever emotions drove him to yell at Peter just hours ago, to look at him like his death would make the world collapse.

It’s professional. It’s appropriate. It’s good, it allows Peter to focus on learning what he needs to learn, on testing the new suit, on getting ready to face an enemy who has tools unlike anything they’ve encountered. It also hurts almost as much as being ignored—in fact, feels exactly like being ignored but somehow worse, because it’s to his face.

But that’s not important. What’s important is getting ready to take on Mr. Beck and his crew.

Because at this point, Peter’s beyond unclear on where he stands with Mr. Stark. He has no idea if his mentor is going to want anything to do with him once all this is over. Maybe not, not now that he knows how much Peter wanted the things that happened between them. _Wants _those things, still. He might decide he’s not worth the awkwardness. The least Peter can do is prove he’s good in a fight. That he’s worth keeping as a superhero trainee, even if they have to stop movie nights and jokes and casual touching. Losing that would be bad enough, but he can’t lose everything, can’t go back to being totally alone, just a kid with some strange powers and a homemade suit.

He has to at least try.

\---

As he’s tossing in bed, unsuccessfully attempting sleep—nerves about the next day and worry about what comes after mixing into a dangerous cocktail, images of Mr. Beck’s leering face startling him awake whenever he gets close to unconsciousness—a soft knock comes at his door.

“Pete?” It’s whispered, barely audible. He probably wouldn’t be able to hear it without his powers.

“Mr. Stark?” he asks, voice catching in his throat. What’s he doing here, late at night? Is it really him? It couldn’t be anyone else—right? It couldn’t—

He realizes he’s starting to freak out, which is exactly the opposite of what he said he’d do in this situation. He takes a few breaths to steady himself and then creeps over to the door, where he inhales, deeply. Yeah, it’s Mr. Stark. But just to be sure, he asks, “What’s your favorite really old movie?”

“Good boy,” Mr. Stark says with a chuckle. Peter has to hold back a whimper at the shock of arousal the words send through him, a memory that wasn’t even Mr. Stark. God. That’s fucked up. That shouldn’t turn him on.

“_Aliens_.”

Of course it’s him. Peter already knew that. He takes a moment to smooth the plain black t-shirt S.H.I.E.L.D. had left in his room. There’s not much he can do about the semi tenting his flannel pajama bottoms, other than hope it’s not obvious. He pulls the door open.

Unlike Peter, Mr. Stark is still in regular clothes: dark denim and a nice button-up in a deep brown that matches his eyes. Which is kind of a ridiculous thing for Peter to notice right now, but he can’t help it. He looks amazing, and he’s standing at Peter’s door in the middle of the night. _Why?_

“If you’re here to tell me I’m off the mission I’m going to freak out,” Peter informs him.

Mr. Stark purses his lips. “Trust me, kid, if that were the message I would’ve sent Agent Hill. Let someone else deal with your tantrum. Move out of the way, I’m coming in.”

Peter steps back without thinking, letting Mr. Stark slide into the room and close the door. And just like that, they are alone together for the first time since—well, technically since this morning, but a sterile conference room with two guards right outside doesn’t have the same effect. So really, since Mr. Beck. Peter can still feel Mr. Stark’s wide hands on his back, the fingers on his knee, the brief moment of reconnection—

He really hopes Mr. Stark doesn’t glance down, because he’s fully hard now. That’s all it takes, two seconds alone in the same room. That shouldn’t be _more _true after everything that’s happened, it really shouldn’t. But it is. He’s just going to do his best to ignore it, because at this point he’s not sure what else he can do.

“So?” he asks, trying his best to keep his voice steady. “If you’re not here to kick me off the team, then what? Because I’m trying to be responsible and get sleep before the big day.”

“Uh-huh, how’s that going?” Peter expects Mr. Stark to move, maybe sit down in one of the large armchairs placed inexplicably in the middle of the room, anything other than continue to hover, so close Peter can see his chest rise and fall as he breathes. “I’m here because we’re about to go into a fight together. We need to be able to trust each other.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to fight at all? Just stick to the sidelines?” Peter’s not sure why he’s being petulant, but bitter and sarcastic feels better than simply confused.

“We both know the likelihood of _that_, Mr. Followed Me Onto a Spaceship.”

As he says it, Mr. Stark smiles at him, annoyed but fond, and Peter feels, just for a moment, like everything is okay. His voice catches as he tries to reply. He nods, managing to get out a tentative, “Okay?”

“And,” Mr. Stark continues, “if we’re going to trust each other in a fight, I think we should clear the air. Make sure we’re on the same page.”

Oh, no. Peter knew this conversation was coming at some point, as much as he wanted to pretend it never would, but he isn’t ready for it _tonight_. He thought he’d get some warning. Maybe time to prepare a speech, something about how he doesn’t expect anything, Mr. Stark doesn’t need to worry about his stupid teenage crush. Peter knows in his bones it’s more than that, knows it’s something he’s never going to be able to get out of his system, but he could _say_ it is, just a stupid crush that doesn’t matter. But he’s not ready—

His apprehension must show, because Mr. Stark lifts a hand, squeezing his upper arm. The shock of the contact brings him out of his spiral. He focuses on Mr. Stark’s face, sees real warmth in the eyes that gaze back at him.

“Correction. _I _should clear the air. You don’t owe me anything right now. Ever, really, but definitely not right now.” He holds his free hand up to cut off Peter’s protests before he can even start forming them. “Listen, Pete, I prepared this whole speech, you have to let me say it.”

“_You _prepared a speech?” Peter replies a little weakly. “_You_.”

“That’s hurtful.” But Mr. Stark’s eyes are twinkling, more amused than Peter has seen him since before Mr. Beck showed up to ruin everything. “Fine, it’s more like talking points. But I want to hit them, so let me get through this. Cool?”

Peter nods again. Mr. Stark is still gripping his arm. Most of his hand is on the fabric of the sleeve, but a sliver drops below that, pressing against Peter’s bare skin. He never wants it to stop.

“Point the first: you’re right, I was avoiding you. Obviously. I acknowledge I wasn’t very subtle about it. I’m sorry. I’ll figure out how to make it up to you.”

He squeezes tighter, and Peter wants to throw himself into his arms, or maybe melt to his knees and press his face against his thighs, whisper that there’s nothing to make up as long as he doesn’t do it again. As long as he lets Peter keep being near him.

“It’s fine,” he whispers.

“It’s not. Point the second: I don’t hate you. That’s what I came here to say. You can be mad at me, that’s fine, that’s deserved on many levels. But I’m not mad at you. I’m not upset, not at you, and if I’ve been handling this badly it’s on me, not you. And I definitely, _definitely _do not hate you, Peter Parker. I want to make sure you know that.”

His hand still hasn’t moved, and Peter feels like his arm is going to burn off from the heat of contact. He tries to reply, can’t make words, swallows, nods. Looks down, because he’s not sure he can take the intensity of Mr. Stark’s expression. So the video had audio, then. Mr. Stark has heard the things Mr. Beck said, what Peter said in return. This is his response.

It’s not nearly everything Peter wants, but it’s something. 

“Pete?” Fingers brush beneath Peters chin, tilting his head up until he’s forced to meet Mr. Stark’s eyes. They’re imploring, asking for—what, exactly? “Do you get that? I need you to—please get that?”

_Please_. As if he can offer Mr. Stark something. He feels dizzy.

“I get it, sir.” His attempt to make his voice anything but a trembling mess is a complete failure. “I…I believe you. You’re not mad. Okay.” He licks his lips; Mr. Stark’s eyes fall to follow the movement. “I’m just…I’m kind of unclear about what the has to do with tomorrow? I’d trust you even if you _were _mad at me. Even if you hated me. I’ll always trust you.”

Mr. Stark lets out air in a rush, as if he’s been punched, and then grabs Peter into a hug, arms wrapping around his head, smashing his face to his chest. The buttons on his shirt rub rough against his cheek.

“I needed you to know,” he murmurs, nose brushing the top of Peter’s head, nuzzling. “In case anything—I just needed you to know.”

“I’m not mad either,” Peter says, half muffled by the arms around him, but loud enough that Mr. Stark can hear, which he knows because he makes that sound again, the one like he’s been punched. His hand curls into Peter’s hair, and he feels it through to his toes, something between comfort and arousal. He presses his face closer to Mr. Stark’s chest, swallowing a moan. “I’m not mad, I just miss you, sir. I really, really just miss you.”

Mr. Stark pulls back, not letting go entirely, but enough that he can look down at Peter. “Me too,” he says, and Peter can see in his face that it’s true. “So please, do me a favor and don’t get killed tomorrow. I promise to take you to dinner after.”

“I won’t get killed,” Peter assures him, biting back the response that jumps to mind: _It’s a date_. It’s not, that’s not what he means, but Peter will take this, happily. “That means you need to live, too.”

“Deal,” Mr. Stark agrees. And then he’s stepping back, dropping the embrace. He fusses with his shirt, straightening it even though it doesn’t need it. He clears his throat. “So, uh, one other thing. You know about E.D.I.T.H.?”

“The drone system that’s kind of the entire problem?” Peter can hear the confusion in his own voice, the change of topic giving him whiplash. “Yeah, sir, I know about E.D.I.T.H.; I’ve been getting briefed on it all day.”

“Right, of course. Well, if by any chance you end up in there, and you find yourself near those glasses—put them on. She’ll respond to your command.”

Peter shakes his head, trying to remember back to the briefing. Part of what makes the whole mission so complicated is that control of E.D.I.T.H. can only be regained by someone with pre-programmed, top-level access. AKA, Mr. Stark. “But I thought it would only respond to someone who—”

“You’re pre-programmed,” Mr. Stark cuts in before Peter can finish the thought. “I didn’t want S.H.I.E.L.D. to know, but you are.”

Peter has absolutely no idea how to process that. “Why would I…_What?_”

Mr. Stark looks at the ceiling, as if he really wishes Peter hadn’t asked. “Because if anything were to happen to me, she’s supposed to go to you,” he explains. “An…inheritance, I guess. But maybe it will come in handy tomorrow. I hope not, but I thought you should know.”

Peter can feel himself staring, but before he can figure out what to say, Mr. Stark gives him an awkward salute, pivots on his heels, and is gone.

\---

Peter does get to sleep, but not before shoving his hand down his pants as soon as Mr. Stark is out of the room, leaning against the wall as he clings to the feeling of those arms around him, the rumbling voice: _I just needed you to know._

\---

The next morning, Mr. Stark is back to his brisk professionalism, but when his eyes fall on Peter, he thinks he sees something soft there. Maybe that’s just in his head, but what’s not in his head is the way Mr. Stark helps him into the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopter, wrapping his hands around his arm and pulling him in, even though he’s totally able to get onto a helicopter by himself. Also not in his head: Mr. Stark squeezing next to him in the seats, letting them smoosh together, placing a reassuring hand on his knee.

Peter would’ve trusted Mr. Stark no matter what, but as he peers out the helicopter window, concentrating on the view of the city stretching below him so he doesn’t get lost in that touch, he’s very glad for whatever changed last night.

\---

The mission starts well: they find the bunker, infiltrate, take down some of Mr. Beck’s guys.

Well, “they.” Peter doesn’t do anything, stays perched in the helicopter as instructed, watching the building uselessly, listening in on the chatter over the comms.

It’s fine, going to plan, fine, fine—until it’s not.

It starts with an explosion. Confused shouting. Peter picks up Mr. Stark’s voice clear and loud over the competing input, describing chaos, things that don’t make sense. Something about a jungle, then Afghanistan.

“Illusion tech,” the agent flying the helicopter mutters. She’s probably right.

Is this when he goes in? Is this disaster mode? They have contingency plans for how to deal with the tech, brought special goggles that’re supposed to fight it, but from the sound of things they aren’t working. The comms are nothing but screaming, confused reports that make increasingly little sense, the staccato burst of what must be drone fire.

And then, coming straight into his ear, clear and distinct, their private channel, Mr. Stark: “Pete? Kid, please tell me you’re not in here.”

He sounds choked, desperate, barely together. It makes Peter want to throw himself off the helicopter that instant to find him.

“Not yet,” he reports. “But it sounds like I should be?”

“_No_.”

Peter can hear the drone fire outside the comms now, rising from below. It’s disorienting, everywhere. He shuts off the S.H.I.E.L.D. channel, cutting out one source of the input. Less information, but at least he can concentrate on what’s important. 

“What do you mean, no?” he argues into the private channel. “I come in if you need backup, that’s the plan. You obviously need backup.”

“No, what I need is to know you’re okay.” Mr. Stark doesn’t sound like himself. Peter has heard him in battle—in battle with stakes a lot higher than this—and he’s never heard him like this before, almost unhinged. “Fuck, kid, I can’t—”

Then he lets out a guttural moan that makes Peter’s stomach drop. There’s a crash, panting. No more words.

“Mr. Stark? _Mr. Stark_?”

“Peter?” It’s F.R.I.D.A.Y., sounding concerned. “Peter, boss is down.”

“What do you mean, _down_?” Peter asks, already sizing up the jump to the roof, heart hammering in a blind kind of panic. He can make it without a parachute. Probably. “How can he be down? He’s in the suit!”

“Beck appears to have installed electromagnetic guns in some of the drones. They broke through the nanobots and—”

There’s a staticky crack, and then F.R.I.D.A.Y. is gone too, not responding when Peter calls.

“I think this counts as an emergency,” Peter tells no one. The helicopter pilot glances back, shouts something that might be a no, but she’s too late: Peter is already hurtling toward the unknown. Mr. Stark is in there, hurt. He has to.

\---

The fall is bumpy; he hits objects he can’t see. That must be the drones. He lets himself go limp as he’s tossed through the air, landing on the roof with a groan.

It’s pretty obvious why things have fallen apart. Inside what must be the illusion zone nothing is right. The sky is dark, so dark he can barely see. There are loud cracks like lightening. When he looks down, the roof appears to be made of dirt.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, scrambling to his feet. “I know interactive theater is the hot new thing, but this is a bit much.”

Making his way by mental map and instinct, he crawls to where he thinks the side of the building should be. There is a drop-off: a waterfall, pouring from nothing over the side, roaring as it flows well past where the ground must actually be.

“Okay, this is pretty cool,” Peter admits, launching his web and feeling it stick to the side of the building. It _looks _like it’s buried in the water, but he knows better. “We could’ve all teamed up. Built some rides. Put Disneyland out of business. But nooo. Had to do it the hard way.”

With a sigh, he goes over the edge.

\---

Things don’t get better from there. Drones start exploding. The world tips and spins. Peter presses his eyes closed, quelling nausea.

It turns out it’s better when he can’t see. The upgraded B.A.R.F. tech doesn’t extend beyond vision and sound, as he knows all too well—he pushes _that _thought to the side immediately—and with his eyes closed, he’s able to focus on what the rest of his senses tell him. He crawls his way along the wall, fingers feeling brick rather than roaring water. He can’t see the drones like this, but the extra sense that makes his skin tingle and hair stand on end, the one May gave that _stupid _name that he refuses to acknowledge, helps him dodge.

By the time he finds a window and slips inside, sweat is dripping down his back, running in rivets he can feel under the suit. His mouth is dry, his heart still pounding too hard and fast. But he’s decided he can do this.

He has to, so he will.

\---

Inside is chaos: drone fire and bullets and shouting. A mess of darkness and sharp shards of light and walls that twist and swell impossibly.

At first it seems like nonsense, but as Peter clings to the ceiling, watching, a nexus emerges, a center point for the action. Control center, probably. And that’s his best bet for finding Mr. Beck.

Too bad it’s at the other end of the large warehouse, with an army of drones—not to mention the actual people—in the way.

With a few deep breaths and a whispered, “You can do it, Spider-Man,” he launches himself into the air.

\---

The bad news is, a drone hits his side, bullet cutting through the suit, his skin (hopefully not any organs).

The other bad news is he misses a wall on his swing over, goes tumbling through the air until he manages to catch a drone, disoriented, heart pounding, acting more on instinct than logic.

“You’re not very loyal,” he tells the drone as he crawls on top of it, preparing to spring forward into the wild again. “Mr. Stark made you, and I’m his favorite, you really shouldn’t be trying to shoot me.”

He processes what he just said and is hit with a pang. Maybe he’s not Mr. Stark’s favorite anymore.

(_I just needed you to know._)

Or maybe he is.

Either way, now is definitely not the time to think about it.

He throws himself into the chaos.

\---

By the time he gets near the eye of the storm his entire body feels like a bruise, and his side hurts enough to leave him winded. But there’s finally good news: as he swings into the center of everything, the illusions fall away, and there’s Mr. Beck, standing alone on a catwalk, screaming instructions into a headset, what Peter can only assume are the E.D.I.T.H. glasses on his face.

Yep. Mr. Beck. This is it. He’s seeing Mr. Beck again. He was afraid he would freeze, panic.

Fail.

He doesn’t.

With icy calm, he drops to the other side of the catwalk. Mr. Beck’s back is to him.

“I don’t think those belong to you,” Peter shouts, loud enough to be heard over the racket of the fight. Mr. Beck spins around, shock registering on his face. “What, didn’t expect to see me? Thought I’d be too scared?”

Mr. Beck starts shouting something about the drones firing, but he’s too late. Without hesitating, Peter flings three webs in his direction: one to wrap his wrists, another for his legs, the third to grab the glasses and pull them back.

As Mr. Beck staggers and falls, he yells something Peter can’t quite make out over the competing din. It might involve the word “slut.”

“Yeah, don’t think so,” Peter mutters, jamming the glasses on his face. “E.D.I.T.H.? Hi, it’s Peter Parker. Mr. Stark said you’d know me?”

\---

Once the drones are off the illusions disappear. Mr. Beck’s gang stands no chance.

\---

Peter finds Mr. Stark buried under what looks like an entire wall’s worth of bricks and beams and cement. With a desperate shout, he pulls the debris away, ignoring the ache in his muscles, the protest of the bruises up his rib and along his back.

Once he finally has a clear view of the damage, the world goes sideways again. For a moment he feels like he’s back in an illusion, but it’s just his own horror at what he’s seeing: the suit crushed, the mask open, Mr. Stark breathing shallowly, blood crusting the corners of his lips.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_,” Peter gasps, pulling the last bits of rubble off and dropping to his knees. He grabs the metal hand of the suit. “Mr. Stark? _Mr. Stark_!”

Mr. Stark’s eyes open, dull, half focused. “Peter?” he asks, with a heavy cough. “You’re not—you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter replies. “Yeah, Mr. Stark, I’m fine, I’m totally fine.” He points at the glasses. “I did it, sir. I got E.D.I.T.H. back. I took down Beck. It was _crazy _in there. Is that what acid’s like? I feel like that must be what acid’s like. Remind me to never do drugs….”

He trails off because Mr. Stark is shaking his head, muttering, “But I saw…he can’t…it can’t…” His eyes are losing what little focus they had.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter brings his gloved fingers to his face, wiping the blood from his mouth. “Mr. Stark, it’s me. It’s really me. What’s my favorite really old movie?_ Aliens_! Remember? Remember?”

Those eyes clear a little, finding his. Suddenly, the hand he’s holding isn’t metal anymore, but flesh, soft and cold. Another hand tangles in his hair, pulling him close, until their foreheads touch. Peter grasps at words and doesn’t find them.

“Guess it’s a good thing I let you come,” Mr. Stark says, voice struggling to rise above a whisper. “Smart thinking on my part.”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, all your idea.”

Even pressed together like this, he can see Mr. Stark smile. But then he coughs, deep and gargling. It’s not a good sound.

“You owe me dinner,” Peter says urgently. “So you can’t die.”

The hand in his hair scratches, nails dragging across his scalp, quietly comforting. “Wasn’t planning on it, kid. Can’t let that asshole win, yeah?”

With a sob of relief, Peter presses his lips to Mr. Stark’s cheek. “Yeah, can’t let him win.”

\---

When S.H.I.E.L.D. finds them, Peter is wrapped in Mr. Stark’s arms, head resting gently on his chest, listening to the reassuring beat of his heart. As long as he can hear that, he thinks maybe it actually will be okay.


	4. Chapter 4

Peter wants to stay by Mr. Stark’s side as they wheel him into the medical wing at the tower, but the doctors insist they need to check him over, too. By the time they’re convinced his various scrapes and bruises—and, okay, fine, one bullet wound, which is kind of a big deal—are healing on their own, Mr. Stark is already asleep, sedated.

Peter would happily curl up in a chair or even on the floor, waiting by his side all night just for the luxury of hearing him breathe, but he’s told no way, definitely not, and when he tries to protest a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent appears out of nowhere to politely escort him back to Mr. Stark’s floor.

As soon as he enters the living room, he’s hit with the smell of it. Nothing particularly notable, nothing he would’ve been able to pinpoint before, just the exact blend of couch leather and central air and whatever the cleaning staff use to keep the modernist metal that adorns half the furniture gleaming. He immediately feels his muscles tense, heart rate spike, blood pump: panic mode.

Because the last time he was here, in this room, the last time he smelled that smell, the man who wasn’t Mr. Stark kissed him. Told him pretty lies. Stupid fucking lies he believed and now the _actual _Mr. Stark is sedated in a hospital bed and Peter can’t even _think _about going back into his own room and—

“Peter? Are you okay?” It’s F.R.I.D.A.Y., melodic lilt bringing the room back into focus. He realizes he’s crouching, clutching the edge of the coffee table, heaving.

No. No he is not fucking okay.

“Is there somewhere else I can sleep tonight?” he asks, trying not to breathe through his nose, as if that will help. He can practically taste the room, and with it memories of a warm mouth, tongue on skin—

“You are welcome to any guest room,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. suggests, but Peter shakes his head. That’s better than the same room, but not by a lot.

“Somewhere else in the tower?” he asks. “There’s got to be rooms on other floors, right? Where do the other Avengers stay?”

A pause, as if F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s running through information. Finally, she says, “Security protocols dictate you stay on this floor.”

Peter groans. Didn’t they just take down Mr. Beck’s whole crew? What does he need security for? “Seriously?”

“_However_,” F.R.I. adds, and it could not be clearer that she’s scolding him for interrupting, “you may use Mr. Stark’s private quarters if that is more comfortable.”

That stops Peter’s panic by the sheer shock of it. “What? But—”

“Mr. Stark gave you full access prior to the mission.” As she says it, Peter can hear a click and hiss from the direction of Mr. Stark’s private hall.

“But…why?” Peter wonders, rising to his feet and walking, stunned, toward the door. He’s curious, but whatever the answer is—mistake, temporary insanity—he’s taking F.R.I. up on the offer. It’s his best option.

“I believe it was so someone would have access in the event of his death.”

Okay. That’s one answer.

“That’s fucked up, Fri,” he informs her as he staggers into the previously forbidden hall. For all its mystery, it looks like the rest of the floor, with off-white walls and carpeting that probably costs more than Peter’s entire house and yet somehow is incredibly dull. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“You requested the information.”

Hard to argue with that.

By the time Peter makes it to Mr. Stark’s room, the comedown from the adrenaline rush of his panic has set in. He doesn’t have the energy to marvel at the size of it, barely manages to struggle out of his shoes and jeans, doesn’t get out of his t-shirt at all before collapsing into the bed. Just as he hoped, the faintest trace of Mr. Stark still clings to the fabric of the comforter, the sheet, the pillow. Peter buries himself in it, pulling the comforter over his head until there’s nothing but darkness and Mr. Stark and the soothing sound of his own heartbeat returned to normal.

Somehow, he sleeps without nightmares.

\---

“Very bold, Mr. Parker.” Peter blinks awake to find the blanket pulled back and Mr. Stark staring down at him, bruise blooming over his left eye, half a smile sly on his face. Before Peter can figure out how to explain, Mr. Stark continues, “I thought you might proposition me one day, but I was expecting more flowers and stuttering, less jumping into my bed when I’m not even there.”

Peter would blame his stunned silence on being only half awake, but if he’s honest, there’s no world in which he has anything to say to that.

Mr. Stark’s smile goes soft. He sits on the side of the bed, close enough to reach out and touch Peter. He does.

_He does_, fingers running through his hair.

“Sorry,” he says, flippantness gone. “That was probably too soon.”

Peter should really say something, but this is…this is unreal.

It’s unreal.

He realizes he’s clutching a pillow to his chest. He must’ve fallen asleep with it. He hugs it tighter. Is it the pillow or Mr. Stark that smells like safety?

“What’s your favorite really old movie?” he asks.

“_Aliens_,” Mr. Stark replies, but he sounds unsure. His fingers dance down Peter’s cheek. “Why would you ask that now? Beck is gone.”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t know. You’re being so nice all of a sudden? It’s weird.”

The look on Mr. Stark’s face is indescribable, nothing like Peter has ever seen; like his entire universe is collapsing.

No, wait. He has seen it before, one time: on Titan, as he fell to ashes.

“Oh, Peter,” Mr. Stark sighs, and then hauls him up to sitting, putting them eye-to-eye. He leaves his hands on his shoulders, steadying. “I thought I already apologized. I thought you understood.”

This is a lot for having just woken up. Peter is still sticky with the grime of battle, his side hurts, Mr. Stark must be in even more pain. How long has it been, how long did he sleep?

And how is he supposed to process Mr. Stark looking at him like that, eyes dark with an emotion he can’t place?

“I know you apologized, but I guess I _don’t _understand,” he admits. “I’m really confused.”

“Of course you are. Because I’m the worst.” Mr. Stark sighs, glancing away, but then, just as quickly, looking back, as if he’s determined to face Peter. “I thought I saw you die out there,” he says quietly. “He showed you swinging in, your web breaking. I tried to get to you in time but I couldn’t, not before you hit the ground at the wrong angle. Do you know what I thought as I thought I watched you die?”

He stops, as if he actually expects Peter to guess. “Um…that you shouldn’t have let me fight?”

Mr. Stark laughs darkly. “If that were what I thought, I probably would’ve handled all of this a lot better. No, kid, what I thought was, ‘damn, I’m never going to get to kiss him again. I’m never going to get to kiss him _right_. That asshole has taken that from me, too.’ _That’s _what I thought, Peter.”

Um.

Um.

_Um._

Wordlessly, Peter leans into Mr. Stark’s neck, inhaling deeply. No, it’s him. Somehow, for sure, actually, really: him. He pulls back, gaping, and is met by a quizzical expression. “Sorry, had to triple check it’s really you.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.” And then, when Mr. Stark continues to stare at him like he’s waiting for something, he adds, “Well, are you going to kiss me or what?”

\---

It’s not like the first time. There’s no thrill of fear in the background, no gentleness turned past eleven to compensate for the situation. It’s definitely not like the second time, the lie, harsh and selfish and taking and how could Peter have ever, _ever _thought that was this?

No, it’s something else altogether. Slow but confident, firm, building, adding tongue, adding moans, adding hands at his waist, encouraging him to slide into Mr. Stark’s lap. It’s his arms around Mr. Stark’s shoulders, a laugh when he loses his balance.

It’s not like any other time. This time, it’s real.

\---

“I’m still really confused,” Peter confesses, minutes later, when they’re both out of breath, forehead-to-forehead (like on the battlefield, but no one’s near death anymore). “If you want…if you _wanted_…why did you avoid me?”

Mr. Stark frowns and kisses his chin. “The fact that it’s not immediately apparent to you why I thought a repeat performance was a bad idea is exactly why I thought it was a bad idea.”

Peter scrunches his face, making an annoyed sound at that non-answer, but he thinks he gets it. Some of it, anyway. He’s too young, blah bah blah. All the things he hasn’t considered seriously, because he never thought, not for a second, that this could happen. Not really. All the things he knows, without having to think about it, don’t matter. Not when he’s died and come back and had his life ripped apart by a madman. Not when the person looking at him with such tender concern is the one person in the whole world who understands any of that.

Not when this is the first time he’s felt truly safe in weeks.

“Then what changed?” he asks, and hopes the answer isn’t nothing. Hopes this isn’t a fluke.

“Did you not hear the whole thing about seeing you die?” Mr. Stark smooths Peter’s hair. He seems to like that, playing with Peter’s hair. Peter’s not complaining. At all. “Seriously, I don’t know, kid. Nothing’s changed, really. All the reasons this is a terrible idea are still there. But for a few awful minutes I thought I lost you, _again_, and it was the worst thing since the last time I lost you. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t lie about the things I can’t get out of my head. I can’t lie about the fact I wanted you even before that monster—”

For a moment, he looks like he’s contemplating murder again. Then he kisses Peter’s forehead and says, out of nowhere, “You haven’t showered. I haven’t showered. Shower?”

Dazed, still not quite believing any of it, Peter nods.

\---

He makes it to the bathroom—palatial, way bigger than his bedroom at home, with a shower that’s three times as nice as the one in the hotel—and gets his shirt off before he registers the enormity of what’s going on.

That’s Tony Stark, _Tony Stark_, standing shirtless in front of him, bruises covering his body, splotches of purple and green and brown overlapping like camo across his chest. Tony Stark with a violent gash of red skin sown up along his side where a building crushed him. Tony Stark with his hands on the buckle of his belt, staring back at Peter, confused.

“Kid, are you okay? Is this too much?”

Peter shakes his head. But it kind of is. Could be. It depends, really.

“Is this real?” he asks.

“Pete, we did the code,” Mr. Stark says, not unkindly. “What else do you need? Do you want me to start listing embarrassing facts I know about you? Because I can. You won’t like it, but I can.”

“No, I don’t mean like that,” Peter cuts in. “_Please _never tell me what embarrassing things you know about me. I just…is _this _real?” He gestures between them. “Or is it a post-near death one-time deal? Because to be honest Mr. Stark, I’m not sure I’ll be able to turn you down even if you say that’s all it is, but it will make me really, really sad, so if it’s not real I guess I’m asking you to please stop? So I don’t have to?” And here go the tears gathering at the back of his throat again. Fuck. This is probably the least smooth speech in the history of speeches. “Please?”

He stops there before he breaks down or something. At some point in that whole ramble he started looking at the ground, and he can’t bring himself to look back up, so all he as to go on is the way Mr. Stark’s socked feet shift on the tiles, weight swinging back and forth. Then those feet take a step forward, and a hand lands on Peter’s shoulder.

“Pete, I don’t know what to tell you.” Mr. Stark’s voice is low, hand shaking. “I’m a mess. You got front row tickets to what a mess I am. This shit happened to us, to _you_, and I couldn’t—fuck, I don’t even want to go over it. I failed. I failed you, I failed you so much, and what did you do? You stuck it out. _You _took care of _me_, which makes me sick at myself. _You _saved the day.”

His other hand cups Peters cheek, encouraging him to look up. Tentatively, he does, and is met with an expression that can only be described as adoring. The way he’d looked at Peter the first time he saw him shirtless, but more: more awe, more affection. Can that expression possibly be for _him_?

“You were right, kid. You were the one with the skills to deal with that tech, and I almost didn’t let you come because I was so scared of losing you. I have no idea how to do this. How to balance wanting to protect you with you being _you__._ How to not fuck off when I get scared, because I’m _me__._ I don’t want to make you promises I can’t keep.”

There’s a long pause, like a breath held. It feels like everything is in the balance, as if they’re on the edge of a long dive. “But?” Peter asks. “There feels like there’s a but there.”

Mr. Stark smiles. “Can’t get anything by you. Yes, Pete. _But_. Yeah, this is real. It’s me, so I’m not sure how much that counts for, but it’s very, very real. My best advice? You should probably turn me down anyway. I can’t promise not to fuck up again. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee I will. Save yourself the trouble.”

But even as he’s saying it, his hand is slipping around Peter’s back, pulling him close. Begging him not to take the advice. As if Peter possibly could, even if he wanted to. No way, not when Tony fucking Stark’s breath is warm on his face, his hard broad body close enough to touch.

And he definitely doesn’t want to.

\---

Mr. Stark is uncharacteristically quiet in the shower, seeming to put all of his energy into the task of cleaning, soft hands working soap over every inch of Peter’s body, hissing in disapproval at the spots where his wounds are still visible, actually whining—_whining_, out of distress _for Peter_—at the angry red welt where the bullet had gone through his side. He scatters kisses across his face as he shampoos his hair.

But the best part is that he allows Peter to return the favor, silently handing over the bar of soap when Peter reaches for it, letting him rub his way across his chest, down his abs, between his legs. Peter is awkward and fumbling, movements gangly and hesitant compared to the confident way Mr. Stark had touched him. But Mr. Stark looks at him with such encouragement, such _affection_—man, where is that _coming _from? Peter wants to be wrapped in that gaze, subsumed in it, wants to feel it over every inch of his body.

This time when they kiss, there’s nothing slow about it: it’s full of Peter’s desperation, teeth and angles and water splashing in their faces. It’s not nearly as good as when he let Mr. Stark take the lead, but it doesn’t matter because it gets the point across.

Mr. Stark laughs and turns the shower off. The room is the perfect temperature; even dripping wet, Peter isn’t cold. Of course. This bathroom is ridiculous.

“Is this moving too fast?” Mr. Stark asks, hands on Peter’s waist, mouth on his neck. “I’m not really calibrated to a normal person’s timeline for these things, but I feel like this is moving too fast.”

“Too slow,” Peter protests, shoving him against the shower wall, pressing their bodies together. This time he’s not embarrassed to let his dick—rock hard, of course it’s hard, how could it not be?—angle into Mr. Stark’s thigh. “Weeks too late. Please, I just want it—I want it better this time. I want you, sir, I want it to be—please? Please? Now, please?”

He’s not sure what he’s asking for, really, other than for Mr. Stark to make the anxious knot in his stomach stop, overwrite every bad memory he has.

Mr. Stark puts a hand to Peter’s chest, pushing him away. “Okay,” he agrees. He sounds so calm next to Peter’s pleading. “Okay, okay. If it’s going to be better, we should move this to the bedroom.”

\---

They stumble out of the bathroom still dripping wet, still kissing, hands not leaving each other, not until Mr. Stark pushes Peter to the bed and then doesn’t follow, just looms over, looking. For a moment it’s exactly like a terrible memory, but then he smiles, and there’s nothing there but kindness.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, and Peter can feel it in his dick, under his skin, through the edges of his fingers.

“Really?” he asks, a little because he doesn’t believe it, a lot because he wants to hear it again.

Mr. Stark smiles wider, knowing, as if he’s onto Peter’s tricks. “Yes, really. I wish I could say I only want you for your heart. Because you’re the kind of brave that takes every bad thing that happens to you and turns it into the will to fight. For your brains, adding features to that suit I didn’t even think of. But that would be a lie.”

He crawls onto the bed, knees on either side of Peter’s waist, and places a hand over his heart.

“Don’t get me wrong. Without this heart, you’d just be a very pretty young thing I didn’t look at twice. I _do _have some sense of decency, under normal circumstances. Your heart is what makes these circumstances abnormal. I adore this heart.” His hand moves down, brushing along Peter’s sides, across his ribs, tracing his abs. One finger dips into his belly button, making him gasp. Who knew _that _felt good? “But I’m just saying, I’m not mad your heart comes in a body like this. It works out very nicely.”

And then his hand is on Peter’s cock. Just holding it, but that’s enough to put him on the edge, back arching into the pleasure, the warmth, the comfort. “Mr. Stark, I’m gonna—”

Mr. Stark smirks, as if he knows, and tightens his grip, pulling Peter over with a few short strokes. Come smatters both their chests, and in the disorientation of the moment, Peter thinks, nonsensically, that it’s a shame. They’d just showered.

Mr. Stark’s hand hasn’t left his dick. Is still stroking, slowly but confidently. He watches Peter with unmistakable curiosity. “The oversensitivity, that’s a spider-power thing, right?”

Peter nods, hums what he hopes is an affirmative sound, not trusting himself to speak. His chest is heaving; it takes every scrap of concentration he can muster not to grab the sheets and pull so hard they rip. His feet clench up, muscles not sure how to process the pleasure, just this side of too much. He can feel himself getting hard again.

“Thought so. And the nonexistent refractory period, that’s part of the package, too?” 

Another nod. He wonders when Mr. Stark thought about that, exactly. If he’d also—after? He must’ve. Right? He must have. The idea makes Peter whine, bucking up. Mr. Stark had also thought about this, hadn’t been disgusted, had maybe been just as torn. Had he also fantasized about pounding into Peter, about his hands grabbing his hips, the heavy slapping sounds, the grunts and groans and dirty words that shouldn’t have been a turn on but were?

“Please,” Peter begs, and he means: please, I want it all again. I want it real, I want it us, only us. “_Please_.”

Mr. Stark stops stroking and shuffles back, pushing Peter’s thighs apart. “We’re not having sex right now, kid.”

What? No.

“_Why_?” Peter doesn’t even care that he sounds desperate, he wants it. He wants Mr. Stark to take him, take care of him. Make him his. Voluntarily. Fully.

Mr. Stark is indulgent, returning his hand to Peter’s dick as he answers, “Well, for one thing, not all of us have super healing, and I don’t want to re-open any wounds. For another, I actually meant it about not moving too fast.”

“But—” Peter’s protest is cut short when Mr. Stark shifts further back and then lowers himself, mouth coming to Peter’s thigh, placing a wet kiss there, then a sharp bite that goes to his core. “Fuck.”

“Let me take care of you,” Mr. Stark says, moving to the other thigh. “It’s my turn to beg: Peter, _please_, let me take care of you.”

And then his mouth is on Peter’s dick, and any idea of arguing disappears into the white-hot heat of pleasure.

\---

Three orgasms later, Peter can barely catch his breath to tap out. Can’t think straight, can only just get out a thank you as Mr. Stark slides back up the bed, pulls him into his arm, plants light kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, his knuckles, the palm of his hand.

“Now what?” Peter asks, snuggling closer, eyes closing, warm and safe and content. He didn’t know he could feel this content.

“Now, you go back to sleep.” He can hear the smile in Mr. Stark’s voice. “Later, we figure everything else out.”

“I think you owe me dinner,” Peter mumbles, nudging his nose against Mr. Stark’s chest, enjoying the rub of the soft hairs there. “I seem to remember something about that.”

A laugh, soft and delighted. “Yeah, that too. We’ll go to dinner.”

_Coda_

Dinner does happen, but not for another week.

\---

Peter has to move home first, hug May tight, promise her it’s over, it’s all over.

“Mr. Beck is in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody,” he assures her. “I watched them take him away myself.”

“You _what_?”

He didn’t do it on purpose, but he has to admit, it’s kind of convenient that she’s so mad he joined the fight that she’s distracted from asking many questions about Mr. Stark.

\---

He has to go back to school, too, where his mysterious disappearance and reappearance hasn’t done much to quell the rumors. But who cares? The whispers slide off him.

Mr. Stark texts every day. All day. As if he wants to prove he’s not bailing again. Peter starts reading the messages in the bathroom, because apparently the goofy smile he gets when he replies is enough to make MJ ask questions.

He knows he’s fooling himself if he thinks he’s okay. After everything—not just Mr. Beck, but everything, the Blip, Titan, _everything_—nothing feels normal. Nothing is ever going to feel normal. But right now, in this moment, he feels invincible, untouchable, because he knows the truth: he has Mr. Stark, and that’s real.

\---

Dinner does happen, at a fancy steakhouse where every bite melts in Peter’s mouth, where the wine comes and doesn’t stop coming (though Peter turns it down for lemonade), where all the waiters pointedly look the other way when Mr. Stark takes his hand and doesn’t let go except to eat.

After, as they slip into one of Mr. Stark’s hotshot cars, bright yellow and so cool Peter feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to ride in it, Mr. Stark says, “Okay, we’ve had a date. That feels like waiting long enough. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, and he knows he’s grinning like an idiot. “Definitely long enough.”

\---

Mr. Stark’s eyes don’t leave Peter’s face as he opens him, spreads his legs, lines himself up, the praise coming fast and firm and _real_: “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this. Look at you, kid. _Fuck_, you’re hot.”

He goes silent when he enters him, mouth falling open, gasp of pleasure saying it all. Peter comes right there, untouched, but grabs him, pulls him down, locks him into a kiss and begs, “Keep going.”

\---

It doesn’t erase the memories, but Peter thinks that if they keep it up, the new ones will paper over the bad ones so thoroughly it will almost be the same thing.

\---

He’s curled in Mr. Stark’s arms, after, naked, half drifting off, when he’s startled by a curse.

“What? Mr. Stark, what is it?”

Slowly, with a look like he’d rather keep the information to himself, Mr. Stark shows Peter the tablet in his hand. On it is Peter’s face, an awkward yearbook photo from last year. It takes him a second to register what he’s seeing: a news story, on the Daily Bugle, headline blaring, _Spider-Man Exposed: The Dark Secret Behind the Crime Fighter Who Has Tony Stark in His Web._

“Holy shit.” Peter’s eyes flick up to Mr. Stark. “What the fuck?”

“It must be Beck’s people,” Mr. Stark says. “They used the Bugle for the video, too. _Fuck_. Kid, I’m so sorry, I know how badly you wanted to keep your identity a secret.”

Yeah, badly enough to make the choice he’d made. It’s there, heavy in the air, the weight of that.

But looking at the headline, then at Mr. Stark—at the concern on his face, the hair sticking every which way, the bruises on his neck where Peter had sucked—Peter realizes he still feels invincible.

It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just that he’s sure they’ll figure it out.

As if he can read his mind, Mr. Stark says, “I’m here. Whatever this is, whatever backlash you get, I’m here.”

Peter nods, and then curls back into his arms. “I know,” he murmurs, happy. “I know, and that’s why it’s going to be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warning:** This fic contains dub-con and non-con of the “bad guy makes Peter/Tony do it” and “Beck tricks Peter with illusions and it gets worse once he figures it out” variety.
> 
> \--
> 
> Re-dated because it was for an exchange and now authors are revealed. Sorry if you have seen it already.
> 
> As always, feedback is very loved and appreciated <3


End file.
